Maybe it was them damn dreams again. Maybe it was because this morning felt like last night had been one-long-history lesson spanning thirty happy-sad-awful-wonderful years. One of the perks of having a truly terrible memory is that you don't have to remember any of the bad things (well, most bad things). You can move on and live life like they never happened simply because you genuinely don't remember. No need for grudges, recriminations or letting what-happened dictate what 'will' happen.
Until you do. Until you become Damocles and your past becomes the sword.
You also realize that you are done with transience. It's been almost a dozen years of constant movement. Of packing, and unpacking. Of loving, and leaving. And you're done. Every single instinct within you wants to stop running away, and start running towards something. Except you have no idea what you should be running towards. But you would really, really like to know. That you don't want to dance in the rain anymore, getting wet and tangled with the wind. You want to make your way to the eye of the storm, and you want to nestle there safe, and protected and just a little voyeuristic as you continue to enjoy the chaos outside. A chaos that - for once - has nothing to do with you.
Truth is, you really just want to go home.
But you have no idea where that is.