Everyone thinks yin is the lady thing. Quiet. Receptive. Flowing around obstacles like water in a mug you forgot on your nightstand. But what if yang lives in her, too? Bright, bold— The laugh that cracks the silence, the hand that writes the dream before it fades.
She’s got that surge, that lightning flash behind her eyes where her ancestors swim in the deep, unconscious pool. She’s the drumbeat under soft silk, the fire in a velvet night, dancing both sides of the coin— yes and no, in and out, asking why, then asking why not.
