The sound of the blow dryer and the smell of nail polish fill in the room. Dark shadows are moving on the mirror reflection, and the distant music of a conversation in a foreign language plays on a loop. I sit here, in my bubble of unexpected inspiration avoiding all of it.
It came from the pages of this other book. A newfound playlist calms my mind and pushes the urgency of the day to a back corner. I think of the kind of writing I’ve done in the past, those pieces that make a comeback in my memory even after years of abandonment. Writing that seems to be an unattached piece of my own existence. Words that once out there, never made a way back to my mind.
For a moment, I stay there, in the memory of those pieces, longing for the need to write like that again. I stay there for a few minutes, and as I write these last words I look up to burst the bubble
Start with a Story 