Remission

For a fake Chinese rubber plant. 

Wake with the window open, sounds of Second avenue drifting lazily on the spring breeze. How could you be so lucky to receive this respite when it should still be winter. Your skin feels different, your blood. Drink coffee on the fire escape, try to take breaths deep enough to reach the dead corners of your psyche, shake them out of it, demand it's not too late, scream into the void.

I read old stories today, my own words circling back to me of dark Stockholm winters, of gut-wrenching heartache and the painful tingles of spring, of road trip soundtracks and the dream of having New York safely tucked in my pocket. How many years it's been of this rollercoaster, hurricanes of feelings but as soon as you force a break into it, how monotonous and tiresome life seems. Age softens you, and as you are reminded your passion it feels oddly far away. Vow to set yourself on fire again.

Bring the word.
Leave the rest to the flames.