The Storm is My Voice
I wait for the sky to turn black and restless.
The city shuts its doors when the thunder comes, but that’s when I step out. The rain and wind are my armor. The noise of the storm swallows my footsteps, and no one dares to watch.
I make my list before the night begins: walls that have been too quiet, corners that need a voice. Stencils cut, paint shaken, hands ready and I double check my rope and climbing equipment to make sure I’ll be safe. I am not here to decorate. I am here to speak and my voice will be loud.
The storm is my cover, but it’s also my power — it shakes the city awake while I leave my mark. Every hiss of the can is a shout that no one can stop. My voice isn’t soft; it’s sprayed, dripped, permanent and no one can deny it.
Pray to the paint gods, because tonight I’m ripping some walls.