When we so fear the dark that we demand light around the clock, there can be only one result: artificial light that is glaring and graceless and, beyond its borders, a darkness that grows ever more terrifying as we try to hold it off.
A mother’s love is absolute, pure, and everlasting. Our moms become the rock on which we stand, the fortress that protects our family, and the strength we thought we did not have.
Interestingly enough, and as I have discovered, the preference for “survivor” over “victim” is a shift in language that is as much ideological as linguistic.