pinewood pines 

words change meaning over time. I mean, that’s the definition of language isn’t it-evolving? Yet still, I’m shocked when my pen touches paper, moving in loops and lines, and I glance over what I’ve just written only to become surprised. Summer used to have a different meaning. It used to mean Bass Lake, tart lemonade from those cups, happy hour, lake smell, going to that small little church on Sundays where everybody knew the people I was with and my grandma had a key to the library. Summer used to mean all those things, just like the two of them used to go together with only one short three letter word seperating them. I want to stomp my feet, cry out in anger, for the world has taken what I claimed to be always mine and then had the nerves to change my one constant, these very words.

But it would change nothing, you see. And we all know that. And maybe that’s the source of all this, the constant rock in my stomach and the tilt-a-world in my head: the lack of a constant, the lack of a home. You say you don’t need it but we all do. Where else would we rest? 

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