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Into The Light 8
Ⓒ︎Ⓗ︎Ⓐ︎Ⓟ︎Ⓣ︎Ⓔ︎Ⓡ︎ 8
Before heading to work, I sat down at my computer. I was detailing the woman's life on the ship after her exile, deepening her relationship with the painter. Every line I wrote echoed elements of my own life, which both exhausted and facilitated the writing process. The story was slowly taking shape, but I needed a bit more time for everything to fall into place.
After shutting down my computer, I decided to prepare breakfast. I sat at the table by the window, watching the sunlight stream in. I prepared fresh bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, and olives for breakfast. The natural light in the kitchen made the colors of the ingredients more vivid. After slicing the bread and lightly toasting it, I spread olive oil on it. For a moment, I felt a sense of relief; the tranquility of the kitchen helped me organize my thoughts.
I couldn’t help but think about my family. I had been away from them for many years. My parents lived in a small town. I often thought about my mother’s cooking, especially the breakfast plates she prepared every morning during my childhood. My father was a former librarian who loved books, and the smell of books in our home always had a soothing effect. Living on my own in this city sometimes made me feel lonely, but I knew I needed to learn to stand on my own two feet.
As I sat...
Before heading to work, I sat down at my computer. I was detailing the woman's life on the ship after her exile, deepening her relationship with the painter. Every line I wrote echoed elements of my own life, which both exhausted and facilitated the writing process. The story was slowly taking shape, but I needed a bit more time for everything to fall into place.
After shutting down my computer, I decided to prepare breakfast. I sat at the table by the window, watching the sunlight stream in. I prepared fresh bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, and olives for breakfast. The natural light in the kitchen made the colors of the ingredients more vivid. After slicing the bread and lightly toasting it, I spread olive oil on it. For a moment, I felt a sense of relief; the tranquility of the kitchen helped me organize my thoughts.
I couldn’t help but think about my family. I had been away from them for many years. My parents lived in a small town. I often thought about my mother’s cooking, especially the breakfast plates she prepared every morning during my childhood. My father was a former librarian who loved books, and the smell of books in our home always had a soothing effect. Living on my own in this city sometimes made me feel lonely, but I knew I needed to learn to stand on my own two feet.
As I sat...
