The path out of the darkness is frail, at first, you think you see light but you question why you still stumble. The head is full of cotton, every step tremulous. You try not to scare it. Suddenly you turn a corner. The air smells brighter, your blooded courses through your creaky limbs like they've been nothing but dust for millenia, you wake with air in your lungs. I scramble to finish the piles of work left abandoned in the darkness, catch up on days of unanswered letters, the shame all left behind by some magic you cannot understand. At night I do not sleep, a manic stream racing through my consciousness, I could write a book in this one small moment.
Today I walked out to the river
sun shining painfully hopeful across the East River
air fresh with potential
New York a peaceful giant stirring from its slumber.
All things are coming. You'll remember how to enjoy them in time.
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