Photography is the art or process of producing images by the action of radiant energy and especially light on a sensitive surface. 

But a photograph can not capture the simplest spark that can cause a roaring wild fire in this heart  in my chest that seems more like a furnace.

 Pictures can not capture this collection of stars that fill the darkest voids in my spirit on some days

Or capture all this spirit when it shines as bright as the sun when it peaks out from behind clouds after six months of winter in Antarctica where a blanket of snow always lay. 

All that shine.

There is a heart-shaped birthmark on the left side of my forehead and it has always made me wonder if it is a symbol for the reason why I put my heart into anything I set my mind to. 

My passion for things is like an ocean so vast that it spreads wide enough that the waves seem endless and horizon never greets the shore's dew.

I am a perfectionist. The bones that hold me up feel as though they fold from underneath me when I don't succeed. They feel like they will shatter and turn to dust.

But then the dust reassemble in a hour glass because there is no time to sulk. Failure does not diminish my light. It makes the flame wail and fight back harder to get out of the rut.

All that shine.

I'm in love after all those times I doubted its existence. His warmth ignite my soul and trails through out my body sending chills down spine like how one would glide their hands across the keys of a piano.

There's a shock that expels from our lips when we kiss after our bodies collect static after play fighting on the hallway carpet. 

He works at a conservancy where he grows different fruits and vegetables and sells it to the community.

And like those plants photosynthesis would be more suitable than photography.

Like everyone else, I'm always growing and blooming. This is done from within because that is where  the light is that goes unseen.

All that shine. My shine. My shine that shines from within.