www.inkthinkerblog.com — I’m sitting on my iron bed in the room where I had my first kiss, wrote the first draft of my first novel, and carved my first (and last!) set of initials into a piece of furniture.
Visiting my mom’s house is very strange. The big strange thing is that it’s my mom’s house, not “home” or “my parents’ house.” Despite the fact that I’m in my old room and the acrylic paintings I added to the decor in the middle of the night during one of my then-undiagnosed manic phases are still there, it doesn’t feel familiar.
The first night here, I stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling for hours before finally falling asleep as day broke and the crickets and cicadas stopped screaming outside. There is no AC here, so closing the windows to block out the sound is simply not an option. I spent the first 18 years of my life in this house, yet these sounds seem so foreign to me.
The darkness here is absolute, unbroken by streetlights and intensified by pin pricks of light on black sky.
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