Adventures in the Inside Out: The Disappearance of the Wizard

Sometimes at night I am awakened by the light streaming from the basement of my childhood home in the distant 1983. I lie in bed for a long time, watching the reflections of car headlights sliding across the ceiling as they rush by… I know that I am separated from that house — and that basement — by forty years and two states. I know this during the day, but at night I cannot shake the feeling that if I just get out of bed, take a few steps to the door of my room, and open it — I will find myself there again. On the old wooden staircase with high steps, wide railings, and square balusters. I imagine myself going down it, and with each step I take, a cloud of dust rises… …to understand everything I once knew by heart again, I would need a couple of months. Therefore, I have to rely on memory, which, as the reader already knows, is hardly reliable. After all, I cannot wait. My story cannot wait. Because I have finally realized what drives me to write. The light that disturbs me at night, the magic that has no name… I finally know who my story is about.