Last weekend, the solid ground moved unsportingly from under my firmly-fastened feet, when I was looking smug and feeling so tres bien. This left me twisting and turning all night long like the roiling ocean.
I saw twelve tortured months tee off backward and then forward, over and over again, like an infant's Viewmaster. But in the poignant chaos I found a fickle, floating island full tired truths and foggy philosophies.
Nothing is as it clearly seems at first. How can you be so ecclesiastically certain that you are right, when it might be Your Royal Highness who's hanging upside down with the whole world standing upright? Experience is a poor guide; emotion a cheap and deceptive compass. Patience requires no map, for she rarely loses her way.
I've beaten my way back in more happy ways than one. I really like it here, and I'm not going back!