My mom, on the phone, says I must be a carrier. Two people have gotten sick around me in two weeks. I’ve been taking lots of Vitamin C and I feel fine, so far. She laughs when she says it. She says I should start handing out those hospital masks before I let people into my flat.
I spent last week traveling through Skye and the Highlands; I got back Wednesday and went to school on Thursday and Friday half-asleep. I have a sudden aversion to coffee that probably has something to do with the inn’s terrible brew. I drank earl grey for four mornings and now when I wake up in my apartment all I want is tea.
Yesterday marked four weeks left in Scotland ’til I leave it again. I’ll spend time in California, time under a hopefully unrelenting sun.
I spent this weekend writing a new story, something young and undeveloped and something mostly to use as a distraction from an unpleasant turn of events. It got into my dreams, then, wound itself up in my subconscious. I’ve been writing so much, bouncing from project to project, finishing up the second round of edits on my first book then diving immediately into the next. School assignments, personal endeavors: it feels like all I’ve done the past three days is put pen to paper as often and as quickly as I could manage.
You get to a point where you’re sort of emptied out. You get to a point where you have absolutely no idea what you’ll ever write about again. So you stop. You maybe go somewhere beautiful. I went up to the Highlands. I saw the place where these photographs are from: The Hermitage. And suddenly all I wanted to do was go home. Surrounded by beauty and I could almost not even see it anymore. My brain is elsewhere, my mind is whirring, my fingers are twitching. I just wanted to be by myself. I just wanted to go home and write about it.
photographs taken at The Hermitage with a Canon 60D
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