Writing. I write to get thoughts out of my head. Distant thoughts locked away or lost down forgotten dirt paths with wild flowers in place of footsteps. Thick, stubborn, lovely undervalued flowers no longer plucked. They smell of spring rain and childhood. Honeysuckles, Baby's Breath & White Campanulas along patches of grass and vibrant orange skies. Dusk crawls slowly, like the Banded Wooly Bear, into and deep indigo night. Warm breezes tangle in my hair and dance on my skin as I spot out the constellations and repeat their tales in my mind. Orion, Hercule's & Leo stuck in the night for all eternity & disappearing as the sun returns from circling the Earth. A fire spits out embers as it releases a distinct crackling pop. The smell of burning wood fills my lungs as I'm entranced by flames cavorting with smoke & wind. I wish to stay in this moment forever & forget the world. Nothing will come close to being as perfect as this night. No amount of multicultural dolls, or home runs, or bike rides, or sleepovers or never being caught in cops and robbers can touch this moment. Not sprinting down a track, not sitting at the bottom of a pool, not even climbing up a tree to lay on the roof can compare to camping under the legends of Greek Mythology. The other kids whined about the cold and drifted to sleep; I stood awake and tuned them all out to hear the world for the first time. I never knew such silence to be so breathtaking.
(I decided to do a little writing exercise all my creative writing teachers would make the class do as a warm up. The idea is to just write down whatever comes to your mind without filtering it even if it makes no sense.
Well what have you but a memory from childhood that decided it wanted to be remembered.)
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