Imago

I woke up feeling so incredibly small today. So incredibly unborn. I felt like I should just curl up and die and stop wasting the air of this insensitive little world. Luckily I’ve felt like this before and I know what it is. In the insect world it’s called imago. Shedding a shell. 

One of the options was sending buck shots through my photography bag, but I don’t really want to kill Mark, not yet. He was kissed and neatly packed into his bag and will sleep, the gentle prince, until the spring comes. Sure, I will shoot plenty of dogs and winter family sports and places we’ll visit, but no more expecting money for my work. I have no idea how I will get the money to live, but I got it before and besides – lately most of my photography work was just simply stolen or published without my name signed and for all I tried, for all I invested, time and resources, it kept coming back to nothing. Normally I’d just abandon my ambition, because it’s been so long since I’ve been doing this – but I love my light, my colors, this beauty captured and stolen from time, too much. So March it is.

People who will want to find me will find me. People who will want to hire me will hire me. But no more evenings away from my husband, begging people for deals and clinging onto false promises like a naïve, approval starved child. I’ve given so much and achieved so little the way I’ve approached it until now.

It’s time to go to sleep and shed this shell – something that always feels awful, painful and rotten on this end and always feels like getting wings on the other. It’s time for pain and helplessness now. In spring it’ll be another story.