The tears came, as soon as I was suspended in air for hours, released form the prison of holding it all together,  for each and all. The flight home felt like the fantasy balloon had leaked slowly but surely, laying flat, ugly, real emptiness.

This place, longed for for  months, heals as much as it hurts. There is a switch in my memory bank that is turned on once I am here, bringing all the demons and angels together again. A mad dance ensues and I am dry as a sponge, absorbing, satiating a parched soul, quieting a restless  mind, tending a bruised heart.
I need the space, the mountain air, the fields, the heat and the harshness, to let go of painful love and find me, as I begun, unmarred and intact.

All the passion evaporated, now just an imitation of a limp flare, the dopamine only stingy droplets.
Stripped emotions are comforting in their lean honesty. The red clay is as defining, as Tara is to Scarlett, crude but with an everlasting stain.

Farewell then, I will descend the 33 steps to a new madness, and maybe, just maybe I will find the savior's icon and the thirst-quenching miracle spring.