A disappearing act is one that we all play when lose heart, lose hope, lose faith in the place we have contracted ourselves to the earning of our daily bread. We all become magicians: here today, gone tomorrow, poof! in a cloud of smoke, no more.
I have never liked this forced acceptance of this fatal tearing; the rending of the mores of relations; the break of the shackles that bind… We put on these handcuffs, gladly once, why must we pretend we most completely gladly break them? (Such a lie, it is always with mixed emotions).
I do not like this losing, always, I must shake my head and bow my soul. I yearn for things to stay the same, to have stayed the same, the comfort of the familiar landscape, the devils that I know, and the angels that I trust.