I still feel like a child, like I am made of clay. Like I am always waiting to solidify before somebody comes along and molds my impressionable mind. Like my intuition is loud, but nobody told me temptation is louder and consequence, the loudest of all. Like I am the wind and I bend to accommodate everything else. Like there is no room for growth. Like I want to be a hurricane, like I want to go mad with destruction. I want to be knotted, old, cracked with wisdom. Something more significant, a little less lithe, like a table, or a chair.