I scramble through the papers littering my desk, desperate in my attempt to unveil some hidden masterpiece that I can blog about.
Surely I've drawn something in the past two weeks. Some little blob of ink or smudge of charcoal.
I find a note scribbled on the back of a shopping list:
The years slip through my fingers and dance about behind me, playful and teasing, constantly beckoning to come dance and daydream with them for a little while.
I struggle with the idea that I'm supposed to be "different" now that I'm "all grown up." I don't feel different. Okay, so I don't actually spend hours down the park, swinging back and forth and watching the endless stars anymore... but I still dream the same dreams.
And I made birthday cards... so I haven't totally given up on who I am.
Surely I've drawn something in the past two weeks. Some little blob of ink or smudge of charcoal.
I find a note scribbled on the back of a shopping list:
The years slip through my fingers and dance about behind me, playful and teasing, constantly beckoning to come dance and daydream with them for a little while.
I struggle with the idea that I'm supposed to be "different" now that I'm "all grown up." I don't feel different. Okay, so I don't actually spend hours down the park, swinging back and forth and watching the endless stars anymore... but I still dream the same dreams.
And I made birthday cards... so I haven't totally given up on who I am.
