It happened. For the first time in months, I feel like me again. I could cry. I’m writing a poem. It came to me, like they used to, before all the shit started. It’s beautiful. It’s like everything I’ve kept inside since July is tumbling out of my pen, like I never stopped writing at all. I didn’t lose it. I haven’t lost it. It didn’t run away - for good. Or maybe it was for good, or at least, for the better. Maybe this breakthrough, this opus, is the beginning of something new and unique in my writing career. Maybe this is it.