I only recently made the connection that my photography is also an outlet, and it is theraputic in its own way as well.
Today I realized, maybe there’s something I can appreciate about winter after all
Some things don't heal, or they heal in a way that every day there's a reminder that it's not like it was before, and never will be again.
Somehow, these words can have a monumental impact on someone the author will never meet, due to time or distance or both.
In the light of the golden morn Storm clouds break and drift away The rain has ceased And gives way to warmth In the light of the golden morn The terror of night retreats In the face of Hope