If my path was lucky enough to ever cross yours again, I would tell you that in one of the filed away boxes, in my heart, beneath these ribs, are the dreams that I wished would soar higher and stronger than the winds, like birds that fly between the heavens. I am a statue at the mercy of the world, standing at the shoreline facing the cliff, I've never seen a blue, as blue as the sea, it sparkled like a jewel that I longed to possess, still it failed to make me feel happy. It's all I've ever wanted. But I never knew that I would feel homesick. The dreams sank as I trudged away, on and ahead in quicksand searching for the spiders web of coloured string. It was all I imagined and more, vibrant, tantalizing and visually pleasing, the real thing was much better than the dream. But when the adrenaline burned off I had dreamless nights and during the day I looked for another Prozac, something as beautiful as the powdery soft pastel colours of these little flowers I discovered last summer. Last week on another one of my unplanned trips I returned, with a sporadic buy of thirteen woven friendship bracelets, that inspired a familiar feeling, I could not bare to leave them. As I opened the suitcase finding a pocket I could stash them in, I came across the butterfly necklace forgotten yet hidden so well. It was zipped away and wrapped in a used tissue that I wiped my tears with when you put it on for me. I wondered about the past that I had forced from my mind and examined it for clues of my carefully planned life to which I stubbornly adhered to. Waves of obsessions and phases lapped at the edges and over spilt. Echoes of songs I was addicted to, replayed again and again for months on end until I felt sick. How I got into baking, cakes and sweets all kinds of confectionery. I baked day and night, treats for everyone who knew me. That was just me. If I loved something I loved it. And if I hated something I hated it. It was always just black or white. Too much or none at all. But nothing ever stuck, it never lasted. If I wanted it, I made it happen until it lost my interest. The necklace was my own iconic bombshell. I still love that butterfly necklace, I still love you. It was my own currency, an expired ticket to the absent happiness, it was the golden treasure once the dust from my eye had been removed.