And just as I begin to believe that all is well, there is some subtle change in the light. The room takes its true shape. I fight to go back to that blissful ignorance, but it is too late. The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.

Truth casts a spell of its own.

I wonder how many times each day she dies a little.

I've had so many bikini waxes, I cry every time I see a Popsicle stick.

One can never go back. One always has to move forward.

Or perhaps it is some combination of spirit and desire, love and hope, some alchemy that we each possess and can put to use, if we first know where to look without flinching.

Sitting in my favorite coffeehouse with a new notebook and a hot cup of java is my idea of Heaven.