Butterscotch Aeroplanes, Rainbows...

I had initial trouble coping, coming back to the States.

Because it shudders me to think…the world I knew before I left and the world I know now. Like I was alone, lost in the middle of a lightless forest…convinced a ghost or angry variety gypsy monster was treading my steps. Like I could feel it gaining, 10 steps back…soon 8 to 6 to 4. I’d turn to face it, scream off the fear and yet nothing gave chase. I was alone and would be frozen forever, unable to move…so afraid to continue and face the possibility that it would return.

I would die uniquely, standing, unmoving…either tragically brilliant or brilliantly tragic. These things, as you might imagine…so difficult to discern.

…

I used to wake in the middle of the night in Camps Bay. There was a mirror at the head of the bed I slept. And half asleep, I would turn over and look into the mirror, see my reflection and run from it, screaming, awoken by a doubled heartbeat. It happened seven or eight times before I learned to sleep with a poster of dolphins over my head.

I never punched the mirror and looking back, what a waste of a richly oozing…and pricey…and bloody metaphor.

Though, I don’t think all of the parties sleeping in that bed would have found equal appreciation.

…

It’s not easy. The first night I’ve had with an open mind since returning, the only thought in my head is running the Houghton Steps until my legs shake. I think of easing into the arctic South African Atlantic, letting it seep inside until I’m comfortably erased...

And so I am.