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it rained today and it was the prettiest damn thing i've seen.
it rained and i thought of you. even though i'm not able to watch the sunrise; i'm able to see you dance in the rain with your hair tangled and embracing every single drop there is, grinning. laughing. praying. praying for a miracle.
you are that miracle, i've come to find out. you are. you are. you are.
i have gotten a strong anxious feeling from surprising positive feedback (and truly, i am so shocked and grateful for this) - to having people look forward to my writing. although it is a very small amount which makes it a tad more challenging to cool my jets and not come down with an anxiety attack due to the pressure of remaining 'quality', or riveting, or intriguing. to not keep up with those specific expectations, whatever expectations it may be, is completely devastating to me. so i've been attempting to upkeep my image for as long as i can hold on to it. now, regardless of my amateur photography, i've atleast got that under control and can realize that i do not succeed at it.
i am still inherently bad at updating and keeping up with my own writing, of which pretty much has slowed down the past months - though i'm very much trying to change that. i hear many great writers and previous contemporary artists on this site - have struggled with keeping an interest with artists on here, too. and i feel it's that they simply outgrew it at this time. that this small community is merely not enough for them to pass time and their worries with short few, sweet sweet harmonious words. and i find it rather silly, when those great wise writers claim the quality has declined. it's quite clumsy to say this, yes. i've led to believe there's a slight supercilious perspective on it with some on here (of which i still greatly admire), aswell--not with any harmful intent, whatsoever.
though, considerably, deviantART has increased its traffic these recent years and does have quite a few that use this site for personal pleasure (see: tumblr), rather than a lesson in art. the front page has become rather vulgar, and unsightly to see. which is quite sad, really.
mothers are such an essential part of life. they bathe you, feed you - tuck you in. chain you to the shitstained ground you walk upon. rid you of disaster. rid of those scars you gave yourself when you were fourteen. they tell you gleeful stories to make the nightmares go away. you crawl into their arms when you're weak, and you've lost the battle.
and this is only if they are not -- the battle.
love your mothers, pals. love your mother even if she won't give you what you desire. you're growing. what she taught you is necessary: being okay in your body; having something to lean on. love your mother for the soup she makes. love your mother. oh, i'll say it again.