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Sometimes, late at night, I stay awake long past midnight. Some nights, I pray myself to sleep. Other times, I sit on the couch in silence, just listening to the hum of my thoughts. And then there are nights—rare, peculiar nights—when I find myself drawn into my library, where I begin to write.

In those moments, I feel like a priest in quiet devotion. I close my eyes and let my mind roam freely, unchained—like a hound racing across an open field or a hawk soaring high above the earth. When an idea flashes by, I grab it and pull it into the real world. It’s like a cheetah dragging its prey up into a tree—protecting it from the scavengers of life.

These are sacred moments. They reconnect me to parts of my past I had long forgotten. Memories float to the surface like distant planets orbiting the edges of my mind. I examine one closely, holding it up to the light, remembering. And just as suddenly, the Midnight Angel closes the door, and I return to the now.

And this... this is the cadence—the point of inflection where everything changes course.

It was early spring. I sat alone on the beach, the air heavy with farewell. The African sun performed its final bow, drawing the curtain down on the greatest show of my lifetime. The sky turned crimson, a hue so deep it felt like the earth itself was holding its breath. The tide eased into a gentle lull, and in the distance, the sea and sky kissed in a soft, eternal embrace. I observed a few birds glide into the distance. It was eerie—hauntingly beautiful, like the hush before something sacred begins or ends.

Looking back, I can count on one hand the number of emotional moments that have left such a lasting imprint. I’ve had many intense experiences, but none quite like that day. It wasn’t just the birds or the sunset that moved me—it was the moment itself. A turning point. The instant a verse becomes a chapter. A note becomes a tune. The crescendo where the dream begins to manifest.

That Sunday was one of the most emotional days of my life. Not just because it was my last day on the island I had fallen deeply in love with, but because a one-way ticket was waiting for me in the morning—my last sunset in the Motherland.

And I felt it in my soul. A quiet dislodging. Like a tree being uprooted—transplanted. I didn’t know if I would survive the move. Would I lose my shade, my leaves, my blossoms? Would my roots find warmth in the foreign soil, or would pests infest me until I withered?

I wasn’t sure what weather awaited. Would the winters be cruel? Would the sun scorch my leaves? Would frost steal what remained and leave me bare? Was I being planted in a desert or a well-watered garden? Would anyone care enough to nurture me, to help me grow and blossom again—or would I be forgotten? Grow old and brittle, only to be chopped down and fed into the fire of some lonely old woman’s hearth, her cottage full of cobwebs and silence.

I wondered.

So, I opened a memory bottle.

I bottled the scent of the ocean breeze, the feel of warm sand underfoot, the sound of distant laughter drifting across the water. I sealed in the rhythm of the waves, the palette of sunset hues, and the soul-deep peace only an African evening can offer. I took it all with me—every grain of emotion, every shimmer of light.

Because when I think about home, I always return to that moment. That last evening on the shores of Péreybère. The heartbeat of God’s own country.