I’m not exactly sure how it came about, for what I faced should have me in a different frame of mind. Not melancholic, nor living for the day, but rather single-focused on a road ahead.
I’m not afraid, and yet I’m neither joyful. But then again, I never was. But racing for the pot of gold I ride the rainbow arc, live weeks in days in gathering all the colors into one.
Night and day aren’t marked by hours, and day is sometimes dark and nights are bright. What topsy-turved my life around, what came and gripped my mind to wipe out fifty years of toil and treasures that mean everything, and nothing.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology