A Little bit of prose for you...

I consider myself a writer, I do. However, this doesn't mean I always want to write. At times, my mind doesn't have a particular topic to discuss. After I had the baby, I assumed I'd have to pry my hands away from the keyboard,but this couldn't have been further from my reality these past few months. In fact, I haven't had the urge to write until tonight.

A bit sad, I am. A bit sad, indeed. No details necessary for my audience, at this point, but my inner drive to write was quite apparent. My night would be sleepless without it;writing. Sadness may not be the appropriate word, instead,lonely in my thoughts. I consider myself a writer, I do. I need these words to release my hinderance of a mind.

My baby is perfect, my job is perfect, my husband is perfect, and my home is not perfect but comfortable and satisfying, nonetheless;me, I'm imperfect in all of this perfection, alone in my thoughts, everyday, all day, invisible.

I consider myself a writer, I do.

I'm waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

I love my daughter. I love my life from a secondary point of view. I love my husband from a secondary point of view. I love you. Myself: I'm finally comfortable, this is palpable, but invisible too. I'm waiting.

I consider myself a writer. Yes.