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Intangibility used to be a focus of mine. I lived for the things which were fleeting and not possible to categorize. I was free of the constraints of everything and anything, from language to thought. I discovered beauty in what you could not touch and could not even grip your mind around fully. Now I'm so far removed, I want something to catch on to. I need something I can touch and understand is real, strong, and there - something permanent. It's similar to being stuck in an Impressionist painting. Nothing is strong because everything is instantaneous and temporary. That was the sort of thing I reveled in. But, things are too muddled now for appreciating intangibility. I simply want comfort and stability. I need a stone to continue to or I am afraid I cannot come back. The air was particularly sticky that day. That sticky air was likewise accompanied with a tacky feeling - a kind of feeling which was foreign to me before that moment. I sauntered up the brick steps and doubtfully opened the front door to my house. ВЂњSweetie... Come upstairs,вЂќ stated my mom in a voice which was all too recognizable. The word sweetie, when employed by my mother, never meant good news. I walked up the stairs. There were two of them, and I walked slow, taking in each and every small step. Eventually, I reached the very top. I sat in my mattress indian-style and waited to get the news I anticipated but didn't want to hear. ВЂњKacie, your dad and I are getting a divorce.вЂќ When those words finally came out of her mouth, it had been like I could have read the dictionary one hundred times and still be at a loss for words. All I felt was gaping holes consciousness should be. It was just like when you go to see a film and you come out a couple of hours later blinking, lost, and wondering ...