Personal Narrative

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Most days end the same way. I get home at 4:00, the house is empty and quiet. I walk inside already grinning at what's to come after I put everything down. Then, in the span of two minutes, I'm sliding on the wood floors of the kitchen singing at the top of my lungs the certain song that's had the pleasure of being trapped in my head the whole day. The empty room is my stage, and whatever happens to be in my hands is my microphone. My mind isn't focused on the stresses of the world. Everything seems to blur into the background as the song takes over the spotlight. All that's deemed important is not butchering the next line of lyrics. At that moment everything is perfect, even if it only lasts for one minute. Occasionally, I actually learn

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