It was not loss. Oh no. What have I lost? Close to nothing. I had nothing to lose, and I felt no bereavement, not the kind a person would mourn for.

I was lost. I had been misplaced by my home, my mind, my joy. It carried on in its long train down paths of time and threw me off to the side, to waste in a ditch, a discarded object. Puzzlement hung in my mouth in words I could not say, emotions I could not place. Slowly, ambiguity turned to languor, languor to sorrow, sorrow to spite. I hated myself for my lack of placement, my lack of direction and coherent thought. I spurned my mind to find the words—I could not.

The dawn was ever more silken and golden than before when I had my pen deftly between my fingers. The wind was more succulent, more warm and fragrant. And the twilight—I will never forgive myself for the twilight—subliminal unlight taunted and tortured me with the subtle glows of lingering dead daylight. It was cruelty upon myself by my own mind. I wanted to snarl at that which tortured me, but I looked, and found only myself to glare at.