‘Hurricane-born’, I read this word somewhere on the internet. Strange word, as it sounds. Inexplicably enough, I felt a strong instinctive pull to this beautiful literary oddity. It said so much without really revealing anything about itself.
It was stubborn, untamed and bowed to no grammatical rules. It simply existed on its own terms and had managed to carve out a niche world for itself. While it was special in its own way, it was in an exile, just different from the ones we know. This imposing word was confined to its own world, forever seen in doubt. It would always be accepted in the fringe literary circles of the world and remain confined to their limited reach. In spite of its powerful presence and the fact that it could describe the best of people in their most rebellious moments, sooner or later it will wither away. 
I looked at the word smiling softly. I admired its defiance, its tough presence. It stared straight into my eyes, appraisal reigning firm. What circumstances had led to its creation? Had the writer been proud about it? Were there expectations, breaking it? Probably, or probably not, either ways it didn’t show. There was raw potential in it and a promise of prominence. It also had the same side-effects as is associated with brilliance. There was a hint of embarrassment in the mention of its brilliance, a soft denial of its qualities and a lingering self doubt over its grandeur.
Could this word be used to describe something beautiful? What about love? I kept wondering all night long. We mature with the damage, not with the years. Wasn’t this word damaged long back, in its very inception? It is an amalgamation of two natural opposites, the fury of a hurricane and the miraculous wonder of a birth. It was something to be loved, taken care of, but it was dying a slow anonymous death. But then, was love and death so different? Don’t Cupid and Thanatos resemble each other a lot?
I don’t completely understand you, maybe I never will, but I don’t mind. Perhaps there will never come a time when you find your brethren, the imperfect ones. Perhaps you will always be reckoned with doubts.
‘Hurricane-born’, you beauty, you are flawed.
I accept you.

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