I found an old room today, it was next to the master bedroom; just off the upstairs landing, in the house I currently inhabit. As I entered the room and subsequently froze, I saw bookshelves; filled with books as you would expect. Poetry in this language, poetry in the other language. Books on madness in heads once raging, cures for mood swings and other coping strategies. Fantasies of worlds only imagined, books telling how to write them and the life of the sci-fi author. There were books on motorcycle journeys, motocrossing dirty and the best roads to use when crossing the United Kingdom. On the lowest shelf I found canvas in stacks, and a box filled with tubes of paints. Quality paint and quality brushes, left unattended for as long as I can remember. I grabbed the lot, still frozen stiff, not fully grasping the seriousness of the moment. Maybe I had found a way out of the maze, maybe one day I would look back and say: I remember the day I rediscovered my ways, and left the darkness behind.
