(no subject)
The other day a friend and I were talking about this moment we had driving home through the canyon. It was after that glorious night at the cabin where everyone was laughing and loving life, just at the very start of the making of New Summer Friends. It was me and two friends with dawn breaking over the mountains and such clarity surrounded us. The sky gleamed with beams of morning sun and everything felt new. The mountains all around us peaked green, even though spring scuttled, dying, around their feet. It was one of those moments where I felt like I was soaring. The Falls came into view as we careened around the corner and I looked at my two lovely, laughing friends, the beauty of the canyon, smelled the freshness of dawn and I thought, “How perfect life can be, like this, driving through a canyon some June mornings.”
It has been too long since I have sat down to write. Ever since the thesis got done, since I tromped up and down the culmination stage, since the one functional relationship I've had in some time ended, I've had no desire to write. It's been months. I'm out of practice and I can feel it, even in my fingers--how unused to the keys, the rhythms of writing, they are.
But right now with thunder playing tag in the mountains and the canopy of grey clouds coyly signaling rain, I feel almost myself again. Summer is wrapping up and I am no more prepared for its shut down than I was 4 months ago, when talk of happily ever afters and airport goodbyes drowned any hint of sense I ever had. With the thought of best friends leaving, packing up shop for the millionth time in five years to leave a little town I have come to love so dearly, I am left feeling nostalgic for every memory I have made here. When the homesickness starts before even leaving you know you're in for a treat. Growing up has its perks, but mostly, like now with all my best friends living in the same patch of town it seems like the worst idea anyone ever thought.
It has been too long since I have sat down to write. Ever since the thesis got done, since I tromped up and down the culmination stage, since the one functional relationship I've had in some time ended, I've had no desire to write. It's been months. I'm out of practice and I can feel it, even in my fingers--how unused to the keys, the rhythms of writing, they are.
But right now with thunder playing tag in the mountains and the canopy of grey clouds coyly signaling rain, I feel almost myself again. Summer is wrapping up and I am no more prepared for its shut down than I was 4 months ago, when talk of happily ever afters and airport goodbyes drowned any hint of sense I ever had. With the thought of best friends leaving, packing up shop for the millionth time in five years to leave a little town I have come to love so dearly, I am left feeling nostalgic for every memory I have made here. When the homesickness starts before even leaving you know you're in for a treat. Growing up has its perks, but mostly, like now with all my best friends living in the same patch of town it seems like the worst idea anyone ever thought.