How different are things, really?

I was thinking about the past today, and how it feels like I haven't been really in touch with my feelings when it comes to writing in a long time. It's rare that I have the space and time alone to fully experience the world and write about it.

I think back to a time in my childhood where I was writing a short story for school, and even though it was just a simple assignment, I felt so passionate about what I was writing. I can remember the way the air felt on my skin. There was a thunderstorm rolling through, so the air was sticky and heavy.

I wrote under the flicker of a lit candle, I wrote from a place of loneliness and solitude. I wrote by hand, unlike now, where I start with these plastic keys beneath my fingers.

I felt the scratch of graphite on the coarse paper and each sensation influenced my words. I could hear the leaves and the wind stirring and howling through a crack in the seal of my window. A sharp metallic fragrance filled me with sorrow to pour onto paper.

While I was alone, I could really feel what the world was feeling. Thinking about it brings me nostalgia. I rarely get moments like these now, but I can almost feel one while writing this.

Seemingly for once in a long while, the night is quiet. The only noise in the night is the crickets and the click-clacking of my keyboard. Siouxsie's water bowl makes a sound in the kitchen too, but other than that, it's quiet.

Siouxsie is sound asleep in my lap, her paw resting on the back of my hand. My partner is nestled beside me as well, hopefully dreaming of a life filled with romance and filled with adventure.

So much of my childhood feels distant, and I want to do more to remember how things were. Writing this helped me feel like it's possible.

Lonely Brooke, if only I could be in your shoes again for just a while. Things were so simple then. The world is much different now.