h8 Camping

The wind rises out of the Columbia Gorge. Fills the campground with dusty lashes,
lashed down tents. Music shifts across distances. I feel tired, and sunburned around the edges.
Not sure what to say in the windy heat. I wish for the calm of night, up-valley, water across river stones, the comfort of my parent's summer homes.

Someone says they feel old. I try to feel ageless. But fail. We are both 21. I know this.
My childhood is complete. Summers out of town will turn sepia and fade into
cool darkness at the back of my mind on lonely warm nights.
What will remain seems callus, inexplicable, dangerous.
Like music festivals, alcohol, sexual relations.

Watching windmills across the valley. Feel vacant, eclipsed by the day. My friends ate some mushrooms and now they fade in and out of the afternoon sun,
hair dusty in the light. Listening to Air featuring Jarvis Cocker,
soothing waves of synthesizer music. Other sides of many valleys more distant now.
Sun lower. "Let's face it now, it's over," coos Jarvis.

Might be withering, dying at the same speed as the sun.
Only a few billion years until solar system becomes obsolete
via expanded sun, implosion. Feels like slowest outdoor party ever.