I've been with myself for a long time. I'd rather be me.

When life is controlled by external standards or a cocoon of self doubt, we are like seeds oppressed by rocks, repeatedly questioning the meaning of existence in the darkness. And in the moment of breaking through the soil, one must experience a tearing like pain of growth. In the crisp sound of the old shell cracking, the sharp pain freely envelops and pierces every inch of the texture. Those dormant periods that are considered withered are actually hidden surges of root exploration deeper. Don't be afraid of the dust and mud you get when you fall, because the true map of your life is redrawn countless times when you get up. Blooming is never a fixed frame of perfect specimens, but rather branches with scars still extending towards the direction of light.