You used to collect rain in a plastic bowl, just in case you ever ran out of water.
I loved those quirky things about you, the way you did these things even though everyone told you not to worry. You were the biggest worrier of them all, only eleven but afraid that the world was going to end tomorrow. My mother warned me not to get too close to you, she was concerned your neurosis would rub off. She didn’t know that I already had my own.
She didn’t know that I intended to live my own life.
It was autumn, which meant hot dust-filled days left over from summer, the smell of autumn leaves and campfires burning. I took your hand and we went running down the streets, pretending we were running from the demons in our minds. Autumn was also festival season, big parties and parades, every day a gala. I loved March, but you were more reserved, not dancing in the wind like I was, with my hands held out to the sky. I pretended I was a dove with new wings. You pretended you were a caged tiger, a hunted creature.
I loved you anyway. I hoped that maybe I, even with all my own neurosis, could somehow set you free.
(from same_oh prompts, here.)
I am trying to develop that out, for an assignment for my writing course. 800 words, with a plot outline. I'm terrible at plotting, my stories seem to make themselves up as they go along.
But I feel like I'm overcoming my writers block, at least for the moment. Or at least, I'm trying to.
x. good friends
x. art & papercraft magazines
x. writing in my embodiment journal every day this year
x. zine orders (thankyou. so much)
x. sitting on the couch with the one you love, talking about nothing and understanding what the other means