Zooming past the flower beds at the hospital the other day, I reminded myself that the colors in flowers can keep rushing at me if I let them.
I am ashamed when I just take photos and do not write. Because I chose an identity and think I need to stick with it. Because I did not study photography, but paid money to call myself a writer. These are weird reasons about how I think I have to commit to time spent, as if it were currency. And also, false notions about what earns us what.
(I imagine people who read this blog and do not know me think that i have very poor writing skills, that I do not know how to use grammar. I think about whether this is a way of performing idiosyncrasy and disability. This is probably a problem as future emploers for places where I might be just a regular receptionist may find this blog to be a dela breaker. Perhaps I should delete the link from my signature line.)