Ten.Two Thousand, Two Hundred & Fifty-Four
Last day of camp.
Last-minute stop for donuts before the long ride over.
I set down my bags and lay a blanket on the grass, bees buzzing on clover, a gentle breeze blowing through the vines creeping along the building walls, pretending I am somewhere else. Pretending I am someone else.
“Art is about the maker. It’s aim: to be an expression of who we are.” - The Creative Act: A Way of Being
Or, I could just not have them.
Today is a much better day. The nerves have worn off, I think.
Someone says it smells like pasta. “I think that’s sweat.”
Sunday Scaries.
My head feels so much lighter.
One week.