I need to escape the redundant chatter that’s circling my brain. I also need to reassure myself that I’m capable of creative writing. My pen has produced nothing but crap lately.
Beleaguered with heavy thoughts, yet tranquil with the mystery of the evening, I laid upon the lush grass. I stared into the citrus sunset, cool blades of grass between my fingers, and pondered the eccentricities of Hux. He was magnanimous, to be sure. I thought of all the beautiful words that could describe him, but got lost in the meanderings of my mind. Tangents were thick vines upon which to swing freely, wind making coarse threads of my hair. Or maybe that was just the breeze rolling over the darkening hillside, whispering, “It’s time to go home”.
On another night, perhaps it would have been time to go home. But my parents were away. Their minds were far from me, thinking different things, busy with the lights of the city and most likely in the center of a squabble. Tonight they would not be waiting for me, and it was one of the rare moments in time where I could feel completely, wistfully, and unconditionally free.
A dull ache rested at the front of my brain. It had been cradled there all day by my skull, but was just now beginning to ebb away. I closed my eyes and further encouraged the tide of discomfort to recede. I thought of the beach. I would soon be standing on a shoreline, curling my toes around a horizon of wet sand. Charlotte and I needed to get away. From her parent’s divorce, to my restless want of something more, we needed to escape. If only for one sublime, sunny, and pineapple-scented weekend.
Approaching with sickening reluctance was summer. Summer. The word tastes like tangerine juice on my tongue. It’s never come soon enough. Always, as the last few weeks of school drip slowly away, I can think of nothing else.
White gauzy curtains billow out from the warm gulf breeze, and I tell Charlotte about Huxley. About how everyone calls him Hux. About how he likes my cropped lavender jeans and loves my taste in music. About how I don’t know if it’s going anywhere, and more importantly how I don’t really care. I’m just so happy to feel again.
I tell her something extraneous and non-essential. I’m not looking at her, but I hear her laugh puncture the silence of our hotel room. She’s alright, too. Her parent’s divorce and pressure from school had disheartened her, but the sea was doing her well. The sea was curing our maladies, our heartache, our apathy. The gusts of wind were weathering away our taxed exteriors, revealing beneath the shining us that sometimes goes into quiet hiding when life gets hard, but never leaves us entirely.
We were refreshed.