Even now, as I'm sitting here writing this, screaming and shouting jumps up from all sides. Blegh, I think I'm far too mature for my cousins. They still do that thing were when we all get together, we all have to be together and play together. I don't do kids games anymore. I don't chase, I don't tussle, and I sure as hell don't do the whole make believe thing. Funny, coming from a writer, isn't it?
I wish I still could. A part of me really wants to dive right in, grab a pillow and smack em all around a bit. I'm just too mature for all that. It's like being the big fish in a little puddle. They're all so entranced by their fantasies, and somehow I've forgotten what it was like to lose myself in the twines of my own imagination, I can't ever let my mind stray too far. Not anymore, anyways.
Anyways.
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"Write with our backs to the wind and our faces to the hard, bleaching sun."