It's twelve thirty, and I should be in bed. At this very moment I should be packing up my computer, walking across Main Field, defending myself from vicious opossums, sneaking into my cabin, and laying on top of a lower bunk that has been damp since the second week of camp. I should be, but I'm not.

This evening I went to a hookah bar. It was uninspiring. In my head were grand visions of men with dark mustaches offering flavors in ancient golden boxes or bellydancers hypnotically twirling around the table. In reality it was a hole in the wall where shaggy-haired hipsters sat hunchbacked in wooden chairs. I guess they were modern day Aladdins.

And as we were sitting in the "party room," I looked around at the rest of the group lounging on giant pillows underneath huge wall tapestries. All of their faces were illuminated by the backlight from their cell phones. They were sitting right next to each other and never spoke a single word. Inhale. Text. Inhale. Text. For some reason I became incredibly sad.

A lot of things I build up in my head. The hookah bar is just one example. For the past few days, while listening to Wilco's "Impossible Germany, Unlikely Japan" on repeat during rest hour, I've daydreamed about driving out to California. It's not going to happen. I've daydreamed about leaving school to ride the rails. I've daydreamed about deserts and palaces, villages and jungles. I've daydreamed about flying, of sleeping, of loving. It all seems there. It all seems just beyond my grasp.

I have neglected all forms of writing for the past two months and nine days. Forgive me. I've become slow and cumbersome, dull and thick. My conversations for the last eight weeks have revolved around which Jonas brother is the cutest and if pizza or grilled cheese is being served for lunch. I don't feel sharp. There's no eagerness to write.

But perhaps that isn't entirely terrible. I've come to notice that I am an observer. It'll play into writing somehow, I'm sure.

I've also fallen in love with the likes of Steinbeck and Whitman. Along with Capote and Harper Lee, John Steinbeck successfully managed to paint a picture in my head. And his words made me cry. It was a gut-wrenching cry, too. I've always dreamed of being able to have the power, the ability, the audacity to make people lose control of their emotions. One day. One day I will.

And until then I'll continue to write. I'll continue to observe. I'll continue to pretend that the things I think need to be said would like to be heard by someone else.

And until then I'll keep making Shrinky Dinks. I'll keep worrying if my girls are getting enough water, enough sleep. I'll keep dancing to the Cha-Cha Slide every Friday night. I'll keep going.