CADFORART

Some people meet the wind—gentle, ephemeral, shaping them in whispers, like a sculptor’s careful brush against soft clay. They are molded slowly, tenderly, with time and grace.

I, however, have always met the hammer. Not the caress of passing clouds but the weight of a storm. Not the hush of a butterfly’s wing but the sudden crack of thunder. Each encounter, sharp-edged and deliberate, each lesson, etched in the grooves of my being like chisel marks on stone.

Perhaps the world does conspire, but not always in kindness. Some are shaped by touch; others by impact. And I wonder — Do the stars forge iron differently than they sculpt the wind?