In these moments when the video games downstairs are too loud and the piccolo in the background pierces through each whisper, I miss being myself. I miss the hours I used to spend with a bow perched between my fingers and the draw of the strings pulled me together. I miss the lives of the characters I used to read about and their stories that made living just a little more enjoyable. I wonder what happened to the flow of words from my fingertips and miss the power that writing fiction has to heal me.
November starts in three days, and I can't wait to be myself again.
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