It’s been two years since I wrote on this blog. Longer, since I wrote on some of my other platforms. I’ve written in the mean time, but it has never been for me: always for a client, or someone I work with, or a campaign for my husband. Work. Work.
I stopped writing because I couldn’t see the point of expressing an opinion in a world saturated with them. Who cares? What’s the point?
The answers, in short order are: probably nobody, and nothing.
And for two years, I’ve lived with that. For two years, I accepted that. But now, I’m tired of being quiet. I am tired of being careful, of saying nothing, of disappearing little bit by little bit. I used to be louder. I used to be less afraid of using my voice. I miss that.
My voice – and this is an important point to make – may well not be worth paying attention to. This may well be massively self-indulgent. Nobody may ever read this – and I have to be ok with that. I’m doing this for me, because not writing is something that I am sad about, and that is something I can change.
This is for me.
discomombulated 
Please keep writing. People are reading :-). And the cow lipstick painting you did for me is still my favourite piece of art.
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