blank page

Falling in and out of love with the act of creation. Somewhere between ripped pages and chalk dust-covered hands, I realized the only thing I could do in that moment was observe. I heard once that the cure to writer's block is mushrooms, but I decided to take a walk instead. 

In the summertime, we used to climb this old building that overlooked all twelve blocks of our part of the neighborhood. You could stand up there and watch the sun rise or set. Drunk or sober, you still felt the same magic every visit, like the world is ripe and ready and yours for the taking. 

He'll tell me how his day was, or brief stories of childhood memories, or talk about a place we should try next time for dinner - and usually I'm listening. But there are times when I'm mesmerized by the way his jaw line is straight like an arrow or how his lips remind me of strawberries from the farmer's market on a hot July morning. I want to take a picture, I want to paint him. Instead, I keep listening, tucking this moment into the back pocket of my mind to remember at times when I'm looking for beauty.

I don't know where this obsession for scaling came from, but by the end of the summer, we were climbing buildings, bridges, you name it - anything with enough height to make us feel like we could still do great things. You're up there, and you can look down and see exactly where you belong. 

There are memories and feelings and stories inside of me that I can't quite figure out how to communicate. Blank pages, untouched clay, new film strip. I guess it all starts now. 


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