the cost of craving change 

how can i curse the wind
for scattering the papers,
for toppling the vase,
for turning calm into chaos—
when i was the one
who unlatched the window,
inviting the storm in?

was it not my own hand
that twisted the handle,
my own hunger
for something new,
for air, for change,
for something to stir the silence?

and yet, when everything
lies broken at my feet,
i call the wind reckless—
as if it had no invitation,
as if it forced its way in.

but truth whispers quietly:
the wind only danced
where i made space.
it only moved
through the opening i created.

so maybe it’s not the gust
that i need to blame,
but the ache in me
that craved movement
without weighing the cost.

maybe the mess
was never the wind’s fault at all—
but the consequence
of wanting something
without knowing
what it would truly mean.