Tuesday, Sept. 10, 2002 @ 9:46 pm
Succombing to watercolour words, strokes of the brush across the page, shades of green running into the blues.
The seas are choppy, the freighters strain on their anchors, but it's sheltered here. We gather up on the point. I run across the field, and the damp grass dyes my feet green. And we run, chasing the frisbee, the oh-so-pretentiously named disc, forward and back.
Strong strokes of brown carving bark from the thick paper.
I'm laughing like I've never laughed before. The one time in my life where I felt part of the group - an equal - and maybe even a little liked.
I shake my head - how did my coworkers become closer to me than my friends? Why did I choose to let them in?
The colours disappear. Shadows and light, white and black, greys. So much grey, then drowning in light.
I watch the brushes swirl clean. The paper dries and curls. I'll tuck it away somewhere, for later. I'll tuck them away for later too, for they too distract me from the game. There are no watercolours in science. And They do nothing but hold me back in the same person I was then.