The words appear. You were never really in charge of when they would beging to churn, weave strange curlicues in your chest and make the skin of your scalp tingle. September is here, your heart is full of summer sunshine, your brain is clear from the darkest fog, the illness seeping slowly out of you like poison diluting in a river. You are ready for stories again, ready to be swept away in poetry and trying unsuccessfully to answer the Big Questions, what else is life if not digging your hands into the sand and trying to find a miracle?
The sun rises slowly over the Hudson River. The chill in the air races down from the mountains, for a brief moment you see again so clearly all of the treasures you believed could be yours. The path toward them is still there. Overgrown with the thorny thicket and deep with mud the kind that tries to drown you but it is still there.
And as long as you keep walking it, it is not too late to make it through.
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