Love is like a line in the sand.
It's staight and true, until a wave comes and smears the line. The wave will leave, with parts of the line. And it has to wait until someone comes along to care enough to redraw the line.

When I write, this is my soul's freedom. But instead of going off into some unknown world, it chooses to stay in my hand and extend into my fingers. When I stop writing, my soul's troubles vanish, and it goes back into me, waiting to be free again.

If Hellen Keller could see possibilities and hear oppritunities knocking at her door, then why can't people now?