Let Me Start In The Middle

I lost my love. How is it possible to lose love? Did it go with the tide or a gust of wind? Did I hide it somewhere so dark and tightly closed it would be impossible ever to find yet ever present, like a phantom?

Somewhere in the middle of my tale (that is: the middle as it stands now, for there may be no ending) I became a desert-dweller, a nomad, utterly lost. Of one thing I am certain: it is far better to wander or, indeed, to be wandered, than to feel in irons with a changeling lover.

I decided to become mad. Mad, wandering - and free. Sometimes drunk, rarely at home, taking in films and shows, mountains, rivers and the sea. It's a wild energy, frantic. In it, the pain dilutes and recedes and there are moments of ecstasy.

And then the peace comes, and you return home.