I descend the staircase down into the depths of the basement. Staring at the mess my brothers have made in my absence, I temporarily ignore it. I drop my bags on my bed as I pull out my laptop. Sweeping a layer of debris clear of my writing table, I set my laptop upon the white surface. Pressing the small power button as I plugin the stereo, I leave it to start.

Lightly spinning my old writing chair several times, I watch it as it slows to a stop. I allow myself to collapse into it. More comfortable than I remember, perhaps it was for the endless hours I had forced myself to sit within it. Or perhaps its merely a mental comfort, a old familiarity. Running my hands across the cold leather, I can’t help but smile as I slouch low and kick my feet up onto the desk. A terrible postural position (particularly for one with a bad back), but once again, its the comfort of the memory.

Starting iTunes and selecting the top selection of the ‘Book Writing’ playlist, I slowly turn up the volume. I don’t stop until the bass shakes the walls, windows and even the floor above me. The vibration of the plastic table echoes up through my heels. My fingers dance with the music as my head begins to bob slightly. Closing my eyes at last, I immerse myself completely within the music. Jo Blankenburg’s – Imperatrix Mundi turns into his Enamorus, both with a play count of 846 and 971 respectively, but its as though I could listen to them a thousand more times.

Images begin flashing within the darkness of my mind. All are fleeting, lasting as long as the signals within my mind allow them to. Disappearing as quick as the electric pulse through my neurons, they are replaced by dozens more. Angels fall from the cloudy sky. Demon rise from the burning ruins of a world turned to ash. The two clash with great fury. Calmness and rage. Pain and joy. Victory and defeat. Life and death. Light and Darkness.

The visions within my imagination begin to spread. My fingers dance not only with the music, but twitch with the anticipation of the scenes within my mind. Muscles tense as I begin to shift constantly, almost uncomfortably. The calmness is replaced with the fires spreading through my limbs. The embers within smolder as the images try to stoke them back to life. A memory and feeling no longer to remain dormant or forgotten. A reawakening of the feeling within the story.  A resetting of the soul.

For the past two frustrating weeks, I have tried to recapture this moment. This feeling. I walked the beaches like a lost soul, letting the sand sift through fingertips as I listened to the waves. I went swimming to try to clear my mind to a blank slate. Went to movies and watched cinematics on Youtube to inspire my imagination. Went on bike rides or did calisthenic exercises to try and force fresh blood through my entire body. Fed the blue jays and piddled around in the flowerbeds to rekindle the touch with nature. I have done anything and everything short of handstands and cartwheels.

But perhaps all I needed was a return back home. Back to where it all began. To the familiarity that cannot be replaced. One often has to leave something behind for an period of time to remember. The return inspires feelings forgotten. Will a short four day break at home be what I need? Will this be the spark to reignite me?

Only time shall tell.

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