The smell of dust and must tickled my nose. I flipped the light, almost weightless pages gently between my fingers. Book in hand, I reminisced of my past, a slight smirk forming on my lips.
The clickety-clack of the keys as I worked my way through letters and words echoed in the back of my mind. Creating worlds, myths and legends. Crafting my own magic.
What a wonderful feeling, that of remembering fond memories; sitting for hours at a time, not caring about what was happening around me or who had gotten into trouble.
It was freedom, it was escape. It made me doubt having left in the first place. What was my reason?
I shuffled over to the bookshelf, trailing my fingers across book spines as I walked past them. It was comforting, the feeling of leather brushing my fingertips. This feels like home...
no, that wasn't quite right... I made it home. I took a deep, hearty breath and made my way over to my desk. It was exactly the way I left it, undisturbed and untouched for years and years.
I knocked on the oak wood, feeling its heartbeat wake.
*thump, thump, thump*
It echoed slightly throughout the wood, waking from its slumber. I turned and looked down at my old chair. Nothing special to most, just an old chair. But to me, this was my treasure.
All the billions of ideas that I had sitting in this chair. I sat, looking down at its chest. How I'd missed this feeling. It's dark wood was dressed with spots and small blotches of black ink.
I reached for my pen, a gorgeous fountain pen, with an intricate design. A golden tip, a body in polished brown. Engraved with the words, 'Just Write'.
Its end was a bit bruised and weak, due to the times I've tapped it against the desk. In one quick, smooth motion, my fingers found their places along the body of the pen.
They curled comfortably around, as if they have rehearsed this thousands of times. It was cold. A familiar feeling came back to me.
I was given the choice to become who I am. I chose to write. To write for others, for myself. To share vivid worlds and eras, there's no limit to what I could write.
The power one has when holding a pen is astounding. However, as some have yet to notice, it does not matter what pen you have, what surface you write on, or the place you put your work.
The power comes from the writer themselves. You sit, wherever, with whatever. Pen and paper, pencil and notebook, keyboard and monitor.
We all have the power to create and share, to share and create. It is the most universal ability, yet few know of the gift they have. I turned to this little drawer to my right.
I placed my finger upon the cold handle and gently pulled it open. Dust sprinkled the air, and I sneezed. Inside was a small book, with a black colored spine and a blue face (and back).
I had forgotten to take it with me before I left. Dust coated the spine and the face. I returned the pen to its stand, and picked up the book. I turned its pages, reading the contents.
It was filled to the brim with my ideas. Books, poems, stories, things I wanted to share to the world! I wrote my heart out with these words.
Like blood, they seemed to drip down its pages to the carpeted floor. I closed the book, held it close to my chest, and sighed.
"I missed you..." Talking to my empty ideas. Great ideas, but empty. I didn't write them, no. I thought they weren't good enough. They stayed dormant in an unknowing rest. But, they were mine.
I spoke to the words floating around my head. This craving, this impulse to piece the words together, it soothed me.
But everything ends eventually, no matter if it's good or bad. The words gently fluttered down to the ground.
I placed the book on the desk and looked around the room, slowly turning in my chair. Then I saw myself, standing right there in front of me, smiling.
Smiling down at my very first written words. I sat up and looked at them apologetically. We sat still, locking gazes.
"Hi..." I spoke, hesitantly.
"Hey..." My reflection responded. They stepped forward. "You're back."
"I'm back." I said. All I could do was repeat the words. I had already said everything that needed to be said.
"Did it work...? Are you better now...?" They asked, with a curious tone. Did what work? What were they talking about? My leave...? The need to just let go of the reins for a little while?
"I'm back here, so what do you think..?" I sunk back in my chair before my reflection began to pace around the room. They looked translucent, ghost-like. Were they my motivation?
"You are back, yes. But are you back?" They replied, putting emphasis on the second "back". I turned my chair around, following my reflection.
"I guess? I feel... yes... I think I'm back. I missed you... I missed it. The words, the pages, I missed it all." They stopped walking. We made eye contact again.
"Good. Welcome home." They walked back towards the chair. I turned the chair to face them and they turned their back to me, laying their fingers on top of mine.
Their fingers passed through my fingers and sat in the exact position mine was. I sat still, stunned. They sat, feet matching my feet, legs matching my legs, arms matching my arms.
It was as if we merged together. I took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. A goosebump-like tingle spread throughout my body.
"I'm home." I smiled to myself, and to the words that appeared around my head. I was back. Better than ever and ready to spill my ideas once more.
I turned and faced the desk once more, placing my hands on my little blue book. I was ready again, ready for it all.