Emily is quietly lying in her cradle beside me, doing whatever five-week-old babies do between being fed, and being asleep.
Normally this would be the time whereby I would scroll through other baby related blogs, and find someone else’s words to share…
Maybe I would pen a little something out of courtesy, as an introduction, a quick quip, a slinky little side note or whatever. However, nothing I would ever dare to have stand alone, naked for the world to see.
And by the world, I mean the 11 followers who I know read this.
I use the poignancy and articulations of others to clad my vulnerability and insecurity regarding my story.
I employ such disguises as, they, whoever they actually are, are so much more clever, funny, experienced, and successful than me.
However, it turns out, just like in the children’s fable, The Emperor’s New Clothes; the only person I am fooling is myself.
So here I am, word by carefully considered word, dis guarding the masks and distractions like a burlesque dancer. Which when you think about it, is rather a fitting analogy, considering how much exposure my breasts get these days.
I want to write about so many things…
However, I have been reluctant to write publicly, because being blind is insular.
I cannot describe the flowers in the fields, The Gothic architecture of a building, the countenance of a person, or any number of external happenings in that way. So what is the point?
The last thing I want is to come across boring and self-absorbed, even though of course I am.
But aren’t writers supposed to be interesting?
I know Emily’s smile because the sound of her breath changes.
I know when she is hungry by the way she moves her legs.
I know when she will wake by the sharp shooting pains in my nipples.
And the rest I make up as I go.
Be warned, my inner world is a strange and vibrant place.
So enter at your own risk.