poor artist muses about Hawaii

Someday you will be driving down the street and see me on the sidewalk holding a battered poster board with crayon scrawl: will write stories for boba tea & sushi – i have 23 plants to support.

I’ll live in a small apartment above an antique shop with a partially stained glass window and a sill cracked with a century worth of afternoon thunderstorms, framed with aging plaster and satisfied bricks who have sunk into their bones having given up being at odds with the world. There will also be a kettle singing on the stove at all hours of the night and a perpetually half finished painting in the corner, a manuscript drying its small ink letters, and generous couch cushions for the friends who come to visit at least a couple times a day.

The thing is I want to go travel again. I want to look for new things, new places, new coffeeshops to haunt.

Like this summer when I flew 4,700+ miles alone across the country to visit a friend in Hawaii for two weeks.

Flying in an airplane for me has always been one of the most interesting and exciting, yet uncomfortable experiences. A prime sample of humanity extracted from one city to spend some hot stuffy hours trapped in a metal cylinder hurling through the atmosphere before injected into the same earth some hundred miles away and scatter as far as their feet can take them.

Maybe I might just be more claustrophobic than I originally thought, but I cling to the small window like it is breath, and in the dark watch cities flicker on the horizon.

Was freedom always such a giddy, happy thing?

But now I’m just a broke senior in high school trying to save up for college, and supposed to be busy figuring out what I want to do with my life.

I sit in a coffee shop where the barista knows my name and wish I had time to look through the expansive art book collection lining the walls or bring a novel to substitute the physics text book in my backpack. Instead, I’m writing two different versions of the same paper and fidgeting with my empty to-go cup.

By the way, I have this itching suspicion that everyone has a novel inside them.

11 thoughts on “poor artist muses about Hawaii”

  1. your opening paragraph is the best opening i have ever read in post.
    just… perfection. ❤️
    when i spot you on the road, i’ll absolutely be stopping to give you some sushie. and maybe a hedgehog too, if you think you can find space for him in your small apartment.
    .
    .
    .
    your writing, my friend, is so lyrical and haunting. i loved every part of this post. ❤️

    Liked by 3 people

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