During the time of disappearance there was movement. The powerful engine of the bike would travel many, many miles. With the movement came intense isolation. And so came fear, never thought of before thoughts, deep desire to understand the things that were happening, self-doubt, anger, no maps or time, little sleep, and in the end bitter cold.

Before it started there had been the unbelievable realization that the life I had built, in all the past years, with the foundation and beliefs under it, the things in the deepest part of my mind that had given me the ability to judge the world and all things in it, was no longer there.

It had slowly melted away as the days turned into weeks and then into the last eight months before. The last and only anchor was my six-year-old daughter, for there was nothing else. Emptiness and confusion consumed me.

The bike stopped where US-395 meets I-40. It was mid-November. To the west was a road back home, to a life I did not know any longer. To the east was into the unknown. I began to cry. Who would ever understand my actions when I didn’t understand them, myself? Would anyone forgive me? I did not know.

With tears slowly streaming down my face I turned into the unknown.

For it seemed that Matt was a small stone thrown high into the air above a clear smooth lake. A majestic splash jettisons into the air and the ripples follow and flow in wonderful movement and dance and then disappear into the shore.