I have been known, in the past, to uproot my life for love. I have led and followed more than one boy to a new apartment. I have dropped everything in a week to take job in another state. I have even consciously created temporary insanity in the blindly loyal commitment to art - lost my mind and almost my body temporarily for arguably six months. Intentionally.

Yes, I give accept appreciate receive strongly powerfully completely for love.

But right now I am just floating over the earth and I have nothing pulling my perfect red balloon, a dot in blue sky, further farther from sight, down. I used to write messages on a paper (mostly the name of my town) and would tie them to the end of the string - let helium and a warm front do what floating fate does. I was only five, but I remember vividly imagining someone in the next town finding my red balloon popped in a naked autumn tree and knowing that it came from practically clear across the world (a whole fifteen miles) away, where I was standing, holding a dream by the string.

You never know how far. Until you let go.

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