Escape
I was a girl in a box. The lines of the blind’s string looking more like bars as each day passed. Even with the midday sun poring across my scratched paper and church bells tingling, the air felt dead, thin and full of dust. And when your room feels like a prison, and when art feels like slave labor, all the creativity burns to faint embers. The hand is forced to mark lines instead of flowing along with vivacious inspiration. The mind is weary instead of effervescent.
Thankfully I was rescued by Emma and her silver steed. Together, we ventured into the city. The rest of the day filled with passionate lyrics; surprising and pleasant reunions; CD locating; tasty treats from a hidden convenience store; window shopping; cheesy pizza eating; piano playing; playful water games; and silly attacks.
I arrived back home about four hours latter with tried muscles, damp chlorine hair, and a smile of satisfaction.
God, I’m going to miss the summer.