In the moment of the evening when the sun kisses the horizon, I entered an untouched, stagnant room of my house.
It was a library, my sanctuary where solace was flooding. My mind opened to this refuge, as I fell into a burst of anticipation.
I was the sun awaiting the sunrise, hoping to canvass the whole world in harmony as I flitted across the texts of my inspiration.
Around me, the books were thrown into dusty piles on the cold, wooden ground. The musty stench of an ancient room and the symphony of fluttering pages overflowed the cavern of literature, giving me a sense of security. This vast sea of books, children's books, engulfed me, with a wave dragging me under during every encounter of another book. I was bathing in the intense comfort of nostalgia for my childhood.
Nostalgia: my yearning for the past, a strange calling from my youth. Thus, I escaped from reality riding my gentle steed, Solitude, and while feeling the words whip against my face, I was untangled from the morass of decisions that troubled my life.
