I was lost. Lost so long that no one looked for me any more. Broken hearts were mended and their yearnings, thrown out like ropes to the ocean, had returned and dried in quiet forgotten corners. I had no name in those times for no one knew it and I had forgotten it myself.
My loss was a prison. I was surrounded in smooth windowless concrete. In the flawless banality I found first dread, then boredom and finally solace. The perfection of nothing transformed into a mandala to be spun in my imagination and colour was created to fill the voids. Having seen beauty in my mind that I never knew existed, I set out to find all the treasures in my soul. And so in loss, I found not only the self within but also my eternal source of love.
I named myself and saw all that I could be. I created a reality around me and lived there. Friends long lost came back to me, and in the ecstasy I ceased to worry about the line that some people believe can be drawn between imagination and truth.
Am I crazy? Perhaps, but better to madly happy than sad in sanity