Writing used to feel so good. It was like breathing. Mental, emotional, breathing. But then I began to feel so constricted. Like I had mental asthma. So I stopped. And here I am.
In May, (I think?) my beloved macbook pro died. As it turns out, that was the best possible thing to ever happen to me. I haven't pinned a damn thing or drooled over someone else's perfectly feng-shiu'd living room in ages. I've begun to see again.
Re-surfacing into the internet world where others' children eat a strictly vegan diet and have never seen so much as a television commercial is brutal. It ain't easy peasy lemon-squeezey. And it certainly is not real.
I also ran into this lovely brick wall of being an unoriginal. It would kill me to be a copy. I have always wanted to be different, an original. So I just didn't write - just in case I was unintentionally copying someone else. I guess I've learned in my silence that I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. Who cares what anyone else thinks?
I no longer read blogs. I no longer pin on Pinterest. I'm still weaning myself off of Instagram, but that one is difficult. It is so easy to lounge about and scroll. Oh, the bloody scrolling. I need to stop that.
My goal is to make sure that I blog for me. Not for anyone else, except perhaps my hobbit. I have these lovely buttons at the top of my blog for the different aspects of life that are most enjoyable to me. Food, embroidery, photography. I am quite dull. But maybe, just maybe, in twenty three years or so, Lily will have instant access to what her mother was like in her twenties. Maybe I'm flattering myself here, but I really hope she will find me entertaining.
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