She wasn’t born, she rose out of a state of earth, fate conspired to create perfection.
She’s far too perfect to be crafted in the womb of a mortal, far too consummate to have grown up and aged, far too perfect to have ever been a child. No, she’s something else entirely. She was born of disaster and catastrophe, she’s an apocalyptic cataclysm.
In the blackest void of night, a thousand miles from the nearest light, a storm unparalleled was brewing. That night, the rain met the hail, the lightening joined the thunder, the sky joined the earth, and from these glorious unions she sprang. She wasn’t created or invented, the conditions for a perfect human simply existed, therefore she was. She was woven together by the wind and the clouds.
Thunder and rain follow her whenever she goes. Tsunamis and cyclones chase her, the ground quakes in her presence. She rides the wind and harnesses the power of the tempest, hurricanes bow to their queen, floods submit to the commander of the calamity.
She’s invincible, for there’s piece of her in drop of water. She’s ice and air and electricity, she’s vibration and intensity, she’s the essence of natural destruction. She destroys, she is not destroyed. Not created, not destroyed, she is energy. She is tragedy.