Overwhelm

A writing day appears on your doorstep, quiet at first, unsure of its footing. A few stray jabs from a to-do list catch you off guard. You attempt to catch the opportunities afforded you, as the sky outside your window breaks into impossible shades of blue underneath a November sun. How you used to fear these days, thinking the dark would reach you so early. But escaping to the little island gave you the most precious gift of time, and you have months yet before the weight breeds in your chest. 

As the illness recedes off of you, and words begins to sift into the empty spaces it leaves behind, you feel that age-old itch in your spine again, feel that elusive longing for all the things in the world outside your window, feel the pieces within you fit again into a puzzle on Manhattan's grids. She asks why you moved here to begin with and all you have to tell her is It was meant to be. That time seems so long ago now, the moment when first you knew, when he lit a fire in you that you could not ignore. You said so often that he changed your life and for a while the words seemed to lose their meaning, but their content never truly did. 

One day in a late August of your youth, you landed on these New York City streets, and nothing would ever, ever be the same. If the moments you remember what that meant are few now, it never makes them any
less
precious.