As a child I always used to pretend to be a variety of different things. I pretended that I was an astronaut and that our living room couch was my space ship, while my gang of stuffed animals was my trusty crew. I used to crawl under the porch in our backyard and use my dad’s paintbrushes to look for dinosaur bones in the dirt. I lifted up the huge slabs of rocks that made up the pathway around the porch and pretended that the little bugs and slugs that made their homes in the moist dirt were some new species of creatures that I had just discovered. I pretended that the small tree in our backyard at the side of our raised ranch used to be a secret fort of sorts. I would hide amongst its low branches and look up at the clouds, collecting my favorite ones in my pockets for later.
But my favorite thing to pretend to be was an artist.
But my favorite thing to pretend to be was an artist.
