The writer, away from home.

The surroundings are pleasant enough. As pleasant as a hotel room can be, anyway. The people are notably nice.

But this the island of the self.

The book is sleeping in its electronic bed. The tape recorder has not come out of its pouch in the purse. In the demands of the past couple of days, the me who is me has remained on hiatus. A strange feeling.

Who are we when removed from what we know? How do we find ourselves when the familiar landmarks of our inner selves are nowhere to be seen?

I breathe. I sleep. I eat. I talk. I laugh. I live a life beyond that of writer. But that one. That one.

Without the writing, I am the island. A house whose soul has fled. I hear the echoes of myself. I am less joy, more functionality. The imagined world that so comforts and defines me has hung a sign in my head that says “Back Soon.”

I can adapt to the pleasant company and unfamiliar rooms. But I am less of who I am.

I miss me.

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