Writing in an old place:

When a thought is allowed to speak, it spreads its offsprings out of my mind. Like spores, they float in the air. They stick to the corners of the room. Then wait patiently. They come back when they find me empty. To grab on to me. Sticky. In that way, rooms nest memories. The biggest struggle with writing in such rooms is to lose the hold. In a new place, writing flows like water.