We’re human. We’re real. We’re not a bunch of two dimensional characters found between the pages of a book. We are so much more than the plot of somebody’s story. We are our own story. Flesh and bones, Muscles and breath. We’re real. So very, painfully real.
Your worth is not measured by how much money you have in the bank or the size of your house. Or whether you can sit on your couch without pushing a weeks worth of clothes onto the floor; right on top of that fort built out of blocks.
Paint me a new day,
Oh Artist of my soul.
Create in me a new heart,
As your picture is made whole.
