INCONSISTENCY EXISTS

There are days I wake with sunlight in my chest, as if the universe whispered, “You are enough today.” And there are nights I fall into the quiet ache of my thoughts, asking the stars why I can’t always stay the same. I build dreams on steady ground, only to find the soil shifting beneath me — not out of cruelty, but out of change. And maybe that’s what life truly is: a constant rearranging of what we thought was certain. One day, I’m brave enough to face every storm, the next, I hide behind the smallest cloud. I tell myself, “I’ll never fall again,” but then I trip on the same emotion, the same memory, the same piece of the past that refuses to stay still. How strange — to crave consistency in a world that breathes in waves. Even the ocean can’t hold its calm forever. Even the moon forgets its shape. But maybe inconsistency isn’t failure. Maybe it’s the art of being human — to bloom, to wilt, to rise again in a thousand different forms of ourselves. Because who I was yesterday is a poem that ended softly. Who I am today is the ink still drying. And who I’ll be tomorrow is a page not yet written — but still mine to create. So yes, inconsistency exists. And in its chaos, I find my most honest self.