You’re so happy that I want to cry. You remind me of her. Maybe I don’t belong, perhaps I should fly to another life, far, far away. I am here to give and give, like meters of ribbon forever unravelling. I am a hindu. I am a buddist, I am a nun and a monk. I am a western eastern philosophy that is confused and jumbled. I am high on the darkness of the light and the light that brings the darkness. I swim with every stroke in my hand. You haven’t touched me for 17 days and 3 hours. I have lost count of the times that I said those things to you. I will rest my weary head here for a while and count the stars. I remember the first night that I entered that dark cave, I couldn’t feel my legs and I was scared. I was shaking like a small fox, tattered and torn without its mother. You said that it was stupid and I agreed. I sat most nights and watched the ocean, tumbling into shore and pushing its way back out again. Like the motion of us. Am I in love with you or the thought of loving you. I compare and contrast every single moment of existence without you. Our child is like a wolf. I have named him Orla Willow, although I am not sure what surname he will take. I stretch up and the white light enters my top eye, smothering me in a dense energy that I don’t want to leave. I fall into slumber and forget where I am. What is my name, not that makes me understand this any more. It doesn’t matter as we are all as one, we fight to be individual and single creature entities, always wanting an emotion and striving to become two. I can’t spell her name backwards but I can read it from the left to the right. Its morning and I am hungry. I break the bark from the tree that grows deep in the forest. I sit and talk with the branches and he caresses my hair, I hug and touch him. I feel like a mother. Not my mother but it’s a familiar feeling that I gently sway and rock to. You are my food, my water and my breath. I look for Prana, momentarily I have misplaced her, she flows deep within my veins, through my capillaries. You use words that I understand, they are familiar to me. Weeping Willow. My legs hurt but you have not touched me for years. Dusty days and weary nights, tumbling into one another. Confusing me as I trip and stumble with every word and every second step that I take, I have a feeling that these boots are too small for my wooden feet.