Along the Lines of Atlas

"I'm thinking of the fifteen years that Sabastian d'Anconia had to wait for the woman he loved: he did not know whether he would ever find her again, whether she would survive. . . whether she would wait for him.  But he knew that she could not live through his battle and that he could not call her to him until it was won.  So he waited, holding his love in the place of the hope which he had no right to hold.  But when he carried her across the threshold of his house, as the first Senora d'Anconia of a new world, he knew that the battle was won, that they were free, that nothing threatened her and nothing would ever hurt her again."

Along the Lines of Sighs

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.