To Be Human
The hand of the artist dips the paintbrush in and out of paint with patience and ease.
The hand of the artist dips the paintbrush in and out of paint with patience and ease.
I love late summer days.
The water droplets are as ephemeral as one's glance towards them.
A cup of something deliciously warm to my side, I wrap my toes under the blanket as I listen to the soundtrack of the world happening outside my window.
The wings of the butterfly flutter by, landing every so often to pause and allow those around to wonder at its beauty.
The rush of lightning is fierce and strong, cracking into the surface of the forest and burning up the sky with light amid darkness.
There is something in the uniqueness and stillness of a sunset that moves my heart.
I stand under nature’s arches as the snow lightens and heightens these interlacing branches, intricate and seemingly infinite ...
Flipping through the pages of the Word read by so many before me, I am united with those from centuries, ages apart.
The lighthouse likely used to light the way for boats seeking refuge.
Poking out among the crowd, similar to the rest but strikingly different in appearance.
A mess of books, seemingly unorganized and chaotic.