The air is becoming drier and the dust grows thicker and I haven't been feeling like myself these days. Spring is a time of renewal and fresh blooms, but being in Riyadh has dried up the artistic spirit that was once thriving inside of me. There are no plays to attend, no poetry slams that push boundaries and no art galleries that publish human bodies and faces that fill something inside of you. I miss looking at photographs, I miss taking pictures of people and places without causing someone great offense or without someone thinking I have motives besides the sheer beauty of it all. I miss walking in the street with my camera around my neck. I miss walking. I miss fashion magazines and editorials without black leggings edited into the picture. I miss male models who wear cardigans and carry satchels while standing confidently in the shot, their arms gently wrapped around a woman who isn't very pretty but whose eyebrows and hair is something you can't stop gazing at. I miss minimalism. Clean cut lines and white sheets and flowers everywhere. No rhinestones, no chandeliers, and certainly no gold. I miss the romanticism of the spring, the ruffles in shirts, the grazing skirts, the mild sun hiding behind the clouds. In Riyadh there are no clouds, just sun and dust and a dryness that leaves you thirsty for more.