There’s a popular trend on most social media platforms, based on the concept of “lost faces”, having memories of loved ones but being unable to remember their faces. I never thought about it twice, because I always assumed I was exempt. While trying to work through my amazing writer's block, I searched through my memories for something of relevance. The most I could remember were snapshots of specific places in my mind. The more I thought, the more I could remember. One picture came to mind...

One day, something fell from the ceiling of my bedroom. It wasn’t loud enough to startle me, just a soft tap against the old carpeted floor that had been in every one of my bedrooms. I looked down and saw a blue glow-in-the-dark star -- o ne of the dozens I had stuck to my ceiling two or three years ago. The sticky plaster had finally given up. I picked it up, like it was asking me to, sitting in the middle of the newly vacuumed floor, ruining the symmetry. It felt so dusty and gross to even...

Summer, how joyous you are to others, How warm and comforting I hear you are. Getting everyone so ecstatic to see you around the corner with the promise of a break. So why have you always skipped me? Summer, why don’t you give me the light of day? You give me no warmth, no comfort, no place to rest. Everyone else welcomes you like a long-lost friend, and I see you like any other day of the week, nothing special, nothing kind. I’ll never be excited for your arrival, not when you shine so...