I could quickly write you a pretty bit of prose concerning the possibilities, the "void", the artistic qualities of a blank palette, or any of the other things we used to postulate about in our younger days. We, the merry band of artists, in all our drama-laden, pessimistic-optimistic, somewhat impractical reality.
The only problem with that would be that our little group is albeit grownup now. Marriages have happened. Children born. Thousands of miles moved. More children born. Careers changed. New life. Death. We, the merry band, are quite different people than we were before.
Except, perhaps, that two of us (one being me) remain unmarried, entirely single, and childless. (I'd say that we were the rebels, but that wouldn't be true. Really, we were the listeners.)
Time. Oh, how it changes things.
Pain has been suffered. Joy felt. Life lived.
Even still, just the other day I found myself yearning for that empty page. The one we used to term "social interaction." The one that I used to express my meaningless thoughts, and pretend that people were listening.
A guarded place, a secret blog, somewhere to write and be unseen by the business world and everyone else around me.
What did I want to write about? Just things. I wanted to talk about heart longings, about dreams, hardships, and heartaches.
You see, I'm still waiting for spring.
...
For me this is a fresh start, but remains the same story.
I am a different person than the girl who first wrote that phrase "waiting for spring" six years ago. I've changed completely. I have new perspectives, new pain, new growth, (hopefully) new wisdom.
This is the same story.
Waiting For Spring.
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