I adore us...

The stories I write are not like a road to follow ... they are more like a house. I go inside and stay there for a while, wandering back and forth and settling where I like, discovering how the room and corridors relate to each other, how the world outside is altered by being viewed from these windows. And all of you, the visitors, the readers, are altered as well by being in this enclosed space, whether it is ample and easy or full of crooked turns, or sparsely or opulently furnished. You can go back again and again, and the house, the story, always contains more than you saw the last time. It also has a sturdy sense of itself, of being built out of its own necessity, not just to shelter or beguile you, but to offer you something more profound, something that is not of the mind, but of the heart, of the irrational and unexplainable, of the magical and miraculous, understood only by those lost souls, who know what it means to be stuck together, yet torn apart.

He has decided he has to change again. Not as profoundly as before, but surely in ways that won't go unnoticed. Once and for all, he has to grow up. Today he shall exorcise his last demon and then lay it to rest - be it by finally acknowledging his illness or forever banishing it from thought. After all is said and done, he will walk forward, perhaps not towards the dreams he dreamt, but towards a life built on firm grounds. A life that does not hide behind clouds and under the ocean, but one that finds meaning in weathering storms and enjoys calm seas. He will stand above the fray and take in the view as he is embraced by his missing piece. He will do so, until he can't, and then he will move on with dignity and grace, without tears or a breakdown for the masses. He is stable, and he is in control. For he has finally, against every odd in the world, managed to take a deep breath and let go.