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.