Water

I am water.

Fluid, adaptable, constantly in motion; I was always led to believe that setting lines and rules and structures was against my nature. Go with the flow, was the premise of the philosophy. That's how we would thrive, they said. Water flows over and under and through all obstacles eventually; the tiniest openings or advantages will let it in, and it will fill and move into whatever spaces it needs to until this can be achieved. It laughs and dances in the streams, but will also roar and crumble the cliffside. And certainly, we've watched and known people who take to this existence as naturally as breathing, and it suits them well.

But we've learned that water is also mist and fog. Water still, but more like air in practice; intangible, detached, and fleeting. Mist is quiet, watchful, separated from the heaviness of the world. It comes for a short time, stays as long as it desires, and is gone in a breath. We've known people who were more like mist, unconcerned with the preoccupations and trappings of the immediate, vague and dreaming and aloof. Mist shines in the morning coolness and kisses the earth with dew, but it can't be grasped no matter how hard you grip, and many a traveler has found their end by letting themselves wander too deep in the shifting.

And water is also ice and snow. In ice is perfect, flawless symmetry and structure. Each line is calculated and precise, each brush stroke as it forms is an act of artistry; as it chooses it can be as strong as any stone, as sharp as any blade. It dresses the trees in crystal, but will also crack hulls, starve crops, and bury homes. We've known people more like ice; rigid and cold, calculating and indifferent, but precise, exquisite, and beautiful in execution.

And the longer it goes, the more it doesn't seem to matter what I was led to believe about anything, anyways. 

I am water.