Why do we so long for that which we do not know?  Why is it the knowing, the safety, and the comfort drain us and the only way to fill up and live again is to be fighting and scared and so consumingly unsure?
Why does she go looking for trouble in all the right places?
And why are some days so very much heavier than others?
The light ones almost seem to drift away in the memory taunting the mind to recall whether they were real at all or just existent in the crevasse between sleep and dreaming where all misplaced and beautiful horrible things go to linger a while