Emerging from the throes of mental illness looks the same each time, what novel news is there to tell, what new stories could one possibly weave from such frayed, old thread? You wake light one morning, that is all, you wake with a nearly satisfying breath in your lungs, you wake able to move your weary limbs through the piles of despair cluttering your apartment: no home looks quite so unloved as one forgotten in illness. The plants on my window sill reach ever higher toward the sky, exploding in little blooms with the spring sunshine, ignorant of the destruction from the landslide behind them.
Would that I could join them.
Would that we could leave these wretched years behind us, turn our eyes from the wreckage and start simply anew. Prune these dead branches from our hearts and pretend their rot has not spread to our every root.
Set a new bud and dare to set your sights
on hope.
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