The Aquarius Woman.
A lightning bolt strikes, the sky clears, and Miss. Aquarius skips out of the smoky aftermath, with flowers in her hair and turquoise mala beads strung around her wrists.
Her long skirt flows in the breeze, and she breathes in, ready to take flight.
The world feels wide open, juicy and full of possibility, just the way she likes.
She strums a guitar and laughs out loud, leaping and twirling and turning down the street.
She appears completely carefree, but—she holds a dripping aquamarine destiny in those delicate arms.
She bears a never-ending jug of water, sprinkling her wistful wisdom and luscious love and gentle encouragement to any thirsty soul that passes by.
How can she move so lightly?
How can she care so deeply?
She’s a walking contradiction.
She’s a social butterfly and a lone-wolf.
She’s a humanitarian and a rebel without a cause.
She’s a mad scientist and a vibrating ball of emotional chaos.
She lives in her head, but has a huge, dripping heart.
She’s hot.
She’s cold.
She’s here.
She’s there.
She’s frenetic, fierce, stubborn as hell, strong and f*cking unstoppable.
Yes, she’s light and airy— effervescent like extra-bubbly champagne.
But she’s electric.
She is god damn electric.
She’s a shock-wave, a lightning bolt, a twirling tornado, a powerful pulse of electromagnetic energy.
She is no joke.
She will change completely in a fraction of a second, growing strange sparkly wings, shedding her skin ferociously to take flight into a whirling gust of wind.
Dare anyone think they own her?
Dare anyone try to keep her?
She’s.
Gone.
She will never stand for a caged life, even if fighting for freedom hurts like hell.
She’s born for the breeze and she knows it.
She is god damn electric.
She will go outside and dance wildly in the world’s sobbing tears, the salty drops soaking her vintage floral dress through and through, as she closes her eyes and drinks it in like nourishing mango nectar.
She knows that pain and sadness and shock and failure are inherently creative forces, necessary as air, inspiring as art.
She’s unafraid of solitude and embarks on solo adventures, spreading her wings wide, breathing in the sacred spaciousness of crisp mountain air and salty ocean sunrises.
She’s a wise woman, a mysterious creature, an intriguing mirage, constantly on the move, always ever so slightly out of reach.
But—behind her cool confidence and wild-child exterior, she’s secretly scared and vulnerable and guarded as f*ck.
She’s secretly a lonely lone-wolf, looking for someone to cherish her unconventional, free-spirited soul.
She will find a fellow adventurer one day and bare her heart; it will be beautiful, like a breezy mountain meadow drenched in sunbeams, bursting with heavenly honeysuckle blossoms and bright wildflowers.
She will love passionately and strangely and freely and unconditionally.
But, she will always—first and foremost—be her own woman.
She will not belong to anyone.
Because she is not meant to.
She belongs to the breeze, to the stormy night sky, to the frenetic pulsing heartbeat of the entire world.
She belongs to starry nebulas and strange circus songs and shocking moments of revelation.
She’s born to fly where lightning strikes.
She is god damn electric.
