THE ENTERING

                                    

                                          
Home is cold and sterile. To me, home is where I am happy, and so far, I have found no such place. For me, there is only misery, and though that may sound dramatic, it is true. Not once have I ever been truly happy.
                          
I think of that now as I stand in front of my stark, white house, glaring at the reflective windows, my mother's hand on my arm. This time, I don't flinch away. Instead, I brush her hand off, march into the house and practically run up the stairs, eager to be in my own room. There, I will find solace.
                          
Though my mother's name echoes through the house, I quickly close and lock my bedroom door behind me. I then turn to look at my bookshelf.
                          
You may imagine a person's bookshelf to be filled with stories though up long before they can even remember. Undoubtedly, you see it as colorful, with journals in shades of maroon and novels the color of the night sky and series shifting from rich purples to heavy, emerald greens. However, my bookshelf has been the same as since the first time I got it, filled with identical black books.
                          
I am a writer, and so words are my sword. I breathe them, and I fight with them, powerfully. They are my sword, and I am proud of them. Strangely enough, though, as I stand there, I find myself unwilling to open up one of the journals and begin to write, with unnerves me. Even in the darkest times have I been able to spout out a book the same colors as a tropical sunset. 
                          
Things are changing, I notice. Things will not be the same.