Crooked roads demands me of stop dreaming of ease, because it was never ease and it will never always that easy that will raise me from the bottom up, Crooked roads demands me that I should remember that a smooth path hides me from measuring my own weaknesses and my own capacity, Crooked roads demands me that I confess through misfortune, however cruel, it will always be the sharper and the sculptor of your own destiny, Crooked roads demands that I can enter through storms knowing storms will enter me too—and yet, I will not dissolve…
Restless storms prepare me to strip away from shortcuts and disguises, to meet my own self without the soft veil of certainty, Restless storms prepare me by tearing down walls that I thought were strong and enough for me, only to reveal the trembling purpose underneath, Restless storms prepare me by throwing me into those cold nights where even one flicker of light away where it felt like beyond freeing that might be full of ideas Restless storms prepare me not for despair but to build endurance, for the strange kind of dignity that whispers, “Yeah, I made it!”…
Every stumble shapes a story truer than success. Every stumble shapes hunger into my first teacher, failure into my harsh mentor. Every stumble shapes the muscle of resilience, a strength that only exists because of collapse. Every stumble shapes the truth that no one discovers their capacity until life demands its unveiling.
Tired hands remember how those nights that begged me to surrender, still I kept moving forward remembering how I even started, Tired hands remember how believing the world was only proving my own worth, only to find it was a door closing, not the dream burning, Tired hands remember how these scars becoming a secret handshake among countless survivors—marks of honor invisible to those untouched, Tired hands remember how survival once felt shameful because we know surviving is never enough, but later grew into pride, into proof of the hereafter…
Tired hands always remember and always whispers hope, misfortune was not my curse but my future shaping. Tired hands always remember that these adversities burned me into making steel, not ash that disappears in the wind Tired hands always remember that my life is not defined by the small instant comforts, but by the storms I lived through and survived Tired hands always remember that hunger, that pain, and loss became unlikely gifts that will teach you to live, accept and love all the parts of it Tired hands always remember that one day, I will look back and say: “Those were the days that showed me, taught me, and made me, ME!”…
Watchword • Survival is my pride • Adversity is my kind steel • Misfortune will always shape me • Strength is my kind of badge • Trials are also gifts
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
“As you are still the Master of your destiny and the maker of your dreams…”
