and it seemed unfair to her, that her passion translated into a profession that provided for her life. where as others had to divide their time between what they loved and what they had to do in order to do what they loved. they had to strive towards something that fed their soul and struggle through something just to feed them self. she viewed it as luck and a blessing that she resided upon the side of the line that didn’t have to wrestle with the world to carve out a life. she just hoped that this ease didn’t one day translate to complacence.
I once knew a boy from Saskatchewan. His hair was the corn and his skin the sun. One night as we lay side by side, he told me of how he missed his home. The flat. When you walked home at night you could see the lights of the next town over. And how in the winter, it all turned bright white. And the sky. It was bigger than everything else. Some days it was storms, and others cotton clouds. Sometimes inky black with stars spilt everywhere. The best days though, the sky was just blue. In the dark it was so quiet. The loudest sounds were those you made yourself.
And I couldn’t help think about how terrible it all sounded. I couldn’t stand to live without my mountains. So tall and strong. Cradling me in their valleys. The song of the ocean always singing to me, never quieting enough to allow me to hear sounds in the night. How the word green could never contain all the facets of the forest. The trees. Some big and some small. How they grew together in groves. Coniferous families, roots deep into the ground branches reaching to the heavens. How they obscured the sky, and let light shine through their arms and form pools of sun in the dirt.
I loved how my world made me feel small, made me feel protected. And he loved how his made him feel huge. How it made him feel powerful. To him storms were lightening and snow, to me they were warm wind and rain.
i like old things. i like thrift store pants and leftover dinner. i like cameras with film. i like to draw with a pen. it's not that i don't like change, that i won't embrace technology. i just like the way it feels. i like how heavy the fabric is in your aunt's coat. I like it when the flavors in my soup have time to blend and mix and get to know one another overnight in the fridge. i like the wait and the romance of wondering how my photos will develop. i like to take the time and the force to hammer out each letter in a word, hearing the audible click of my typewriter echoing through the room. i like that when i make a mistake it stays on the page, i cannot escape it. this being said i understand the necessity of the future, if anything it only intensifies the past.