Back from an unintentional hiatus of hibernation, here is a brief bit of writing I on a bus.
I was traveling between London and Lincoln: a twee little town in the East Midlands region of England, part of this year’s odyssey of [trying to] changing my university for next year. More on that, soon.
Rutland Terrace. Stamford.
Sun descending over rolling hills of yellow. Flowers cascading for acres. Spring in England, come at last. Between continents of cumulus, real, blue sky. The beauty of it, tangible.
Glory in the gold. Shadows east across the field, changing the hues as a painter would with the swipe of a hand. Messy, blurred. A stroke of simple dissonance like a guitar with its A in minor.
Drunk on the juxtaposition of earth and sky in the face of the setting sun.
On the bus heading to The North, and it’s like I can feel this land calling to the marrow in my bones.
This American obsession with belonging somewhere, being raised in a nationalistic culture of Ye Olde Melting Pot. A need to be nomadic; desperation for discovery.