The chair creaks under the familiar weight as I settle down into the perfectly contoured crevices my form has permanently pressed into the fabric. I stretch my arms out in front of me, pushing my interlocked fingers together until there is a satisfying pop to match the relieving crick that sounds from the top of my spine as I roll my head in a slow, forceful circle. I feel as though I have not moved in an age yet have also not rested in twice as many nights.
Dust dances in the stream of low, ethereal winter sun rays that shine onto the computer screen like a celestial harbinger of a literary rapture. Is this a signal from the heavens? Hubris swells inside as I imagine how my return will be feted. It has been too long already. However Doubt is a powerful foe and it has kept me prisoner for more days than I have been able to count – guarded, always, by fear and pride – and I worry my escape is only temporary. I shake my head at the thought and press forward, feeling my way through the fog.
A sensation traverses from my finger tips to my core, warming me, as my hands meet the familiar keys of my keyboard and words start to appear in front of me as if by magic or some unseen, benevolent force. Motivation and inspiration returns to me in floods, satiating the dry, barren ground and nourishing the life that had been restlessly waiting beneath the surface for more fecund environs in which to grow and flourish.
A flickering flame bursts with new life into a small, but strong, fire emanating light and warmth. Doubt still lingers in the shadows like a spectre, a taunting phantom. It doesn’t like the light and with threatening menace prowls the comfort of the dark looking for an opportunity to strike again. It promises to consume me next time but I ignore its venomous hiss and gently feed the fire.
As I delicately place words on the screen like twigs onto flame a single thought crackles in the coals: I’m coming back.
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