I have this exercise where I write a short story I keep saying I'm working on, and have been for years and years... but that's not really true in a sense. The story is just for me, because it changes every time I write it. It's simply a place where I go sometimes to think about things... the scene is simple... it's me, wrapped in nothing but my coat against the morning air, sitting on some girl's porch, smoking (smoking is a wonderful literary device... the actions therein can be used to pace the narrative) and thinking through faults and my thoughts on returning inside.
Sometimes I welcome the words of love that flow when I walk inside... sometimes I don't, and I (or my protagonist, if you prefer) does things even I, with my disdain for morals and societal standards concerning intimacy... find reprehensible.
I don't even need to write it most of the time, though it helps when I do. Just visiting this place lets me think. I just spent a good half hour there.
Well that's about it for that thought.
Other thoughts: Protestant conservatism amuses me, dancing is fun, if there's one thing I don't want to do is jump into 'love' prematurely and stupidly, and there is a moth in here... despite the cold... Oddly enough. Now it's dead.
There are a lot of things I miss. I miss lying on the lap of a friend without it having to mean anything but spending time together. I miss reading together with people. I miss massages, I miss snuggling that didn't have sexual connotations. I miss being able to share a bed with someone without thinking about sex. I miss frank and open debates about politics with an informed member of the 'other side'. I miss friends gone forever but on the other hand think it's a rather selfish thought. I miss driving. I miss lying in a car watching the stars go by. I miss the beach. I miss the ocean. I miss spontaneous creative passions that don't just get confined to a black notebook and lost to the infinite void of the internet. I miss my cousins. I miss film. I miss a life I could have had rather than the one I have now, as stupid as it sounds and as ridiculous wishing that I was someone else is. I miss having a shot at Ivy League schools. I miss the world before the Bush administration. I miss having forests to run around in that actually felt like they were forests. I miss my bike.
I'll end that there.