Under a sky that shifts its hue like the mood within you, you embrace your own rhythm—a rustle of leaves, a breath of untold thoughts. Around you, they’ll paste labels: “crazy,” “intense,” “weird.” Let them stick there on their trembling paper. You, a dancer on the edge of reality, have always known that truth doesn’t live in a box but hides among its subtle shades.

You drape your courage like a silk scarf: it catches the light when you move, and ripples when you feel. When they call you “selfish” for tending to your roots, you smile—knowing you cannot give flowers if your foundation is dry. And when they shout “conspiracy theorist,” you lift your gaze to the stars—where untold stories carve pathways into the infinite.

On avenues of dreams woven with an artist’s footsteps, you vault over templates and defy monotony. You regard the absurd with a child’s curious eyes, for you know inspiration is born amid paradox. And when they brand your words “disturbing,” you hum a gentle refrain: “Being different is its own hidden art in every single moment.”

So gather your letters and live your own verse. Let them label you, for you will read their words only when you choose—to remind yourself how you fill the world with light simply by existing. In the poem of your soul, you are the maestro—and that is the most beautiful performance of all.