This Life is Down for Maintenance

Sunday night: Everything is quiet.

There is so much I want to write about, so much I want to say, but stop: Is it worth it? Who, besides myself, cares about the insecurities, the out-right fears, the experiences, the loves-lost, of a forty-eight-year-old woman?

I look at some of the bloggers I know, like Charlotte and Kendra, and while I like them personally (as people), do I really want to share that I can squirt breast milk across a room (not that I can, mind you, but if I could, would I? Share that, that is.)

I have no tattoos. I have no piercings except for the ones in my earlobes that my mother had done when I was five. I walk and I take pictures. Photography is my passion, but I cannot earn a living at it. What I want, I cannot have, regardless of the surprises the universe drops at my feet, that’s just the facts, jack.

So quiet time it is for me right now.

Rewind, refocus, rejuvenate.


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