Have you ever had a fuzzy, vaguely unsettling sensation just inside your skull, the feeling that your brain is actually itching? I've been getting it a lot lately. It happens every time a clueless, happy little recent high-school graduate walks by. They remind me so much of me at 18 that it causes me pain in the brain pan. The pain is mostly envy. I remember what it was like to have everything open before me, so many tantalizing possibilities, so many dreams. Granted, most of my dreams were daffy (hello, Rob Halford is not going to marry a chick), but at the time all things were possible. I'm sure I exuded the same disgusting sense of "Woo!" then that these kids do now, and I'd like to thank all of the adults who refrained from slapping me. I finally understand what a difficult urge that is to keep in check.
At any rate, this is not a growing-older whine, or a where-did-the-time-go diatribe, or a why-am-I-not -rich-yet inquisition. It's about that itchy brain sensation. Laying in bed a little while ago, I realized what that sensation really is. When I think about it, the image that comes to mind is myself, sitting here now, and another layer of me, the young, creative one, hovering around the edges. It's like an animated crayon aura, ready to peel off at any time and live again. But what does it mean?
It has to do with the time of year. Summer has always held a deep connection for me. It was when I spent the most time thinking as a kid: playing, drawing, writing, listening to music, and just dreaming. The creative, nostalgic, greater part of my soul is very much tied to summer. As I drive home from work through honeysuckle scented air singing along with 80s songs on the radio, the crayon aura agitates, reminding me of what I am, and what I need to do. Finally, I hear it. The book is beginning. ~H