It’s a blustery day out. Not so much down on the ground, but up above. I can see movement–big, fluffy white clouds–the kind I drew when I was a kid–streching and sprinting, then breaking apart. I can’t remember what the weather was like a year ago today. But I remember what it was like a year ago tomorrow.
It’s a dull day here in the Writing Center. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. It’s giving me time to reflect, time to consider what lies ahead for the rest of the week. I’m moving slowly, trying to remain hyper-aware of everything.
Outside the wind is picking up. I want to go outside and feel it on my face and arms. I want to be picked up by it, pushed forward, swept away. Far, far away.