(no subject)
I don't want to leave Colorado ever, ever again.
The only problem I find in this state is that I have an impossible time writing. I have such an urge to churn out a story involving bees, but I cannot do it. I want to be stuck in a tiny room by myself, with a small closet and a bed and a wooden desk pushed hopelessly sideways against a window. I want to have to lean backward, to the point of almost falling out of the chair, to be able to see anything outside. I know I can write in these conditions. I can't write with so many birds interrupting the way things sound and so much sunshine making even the darkest corner white. People say that cities are noisy, but there's something to be said for the kind of quiet they also produce. Amidst the hums of people driving, walking, yelling, loving, fighting, and feeding their cats, there's a silence that was made to be filled with writers. I miss being part of that.