Waking up this morning, another frozen stormy tsunami of life slaps my face vulgarily.

Then the ocean turned sweet, cozy, warm and safe; It's Breanna-Pumpkin-Soup-Lowman.

I am drowning comfortably in her words, in her human personal warmth, in her ability to touch another. Today it's me. I am orange-blushing weirdly: Why am I even mentioned among those gifted writers if none of my social circles understand my art and 70% of my blogs are viewed, liked and commented by Breanna (the other 30% is Amy Marley hehehe)

Well, what can I say, what can I feel.

I stopped giving f*cks because I was living underneath a lying shadow, then the exposure to real light is unfamiliar sometimes, amid the uncontainable darkness I've been keeping for too long.

But you, you welcome it and call it authenticity. Honesty. Unapologetic. Raw.

Instead of screaming ’em passwords I am doing the opposite, (because authentic became a social keyword for connection without action) but you girl you've got a big biggy Notorious B.I.G heart and some depth there too, if you can see light in the bottom of the filthiest words. It takes immense attention and compassion to do so.

You're making Medium a special place, a friendly one, an affectionate one. a safe green-house to explode and still feel whole, actually more than ever.

Your gifts are inexpilcable, and that's why I needed to go back and reread and recomment all of the kind bombs you left me hidden everywhere on my profile. So when I open it everyday I get some Breanna spice, to ignite another tough day.

"Now I look like a pumpkin and you look like a tomato" (My fav blog of her that made me start following her)
That's a good match for a winterish soup.

Let it snow then, my heart and fingers are warm and ready for double trouble,
Thanks to you.
Love you former-stranger-forming-sister.