Chelsea lies quiet on a Monday night in daylight saving times, the night darker somehow, the sidewalks empty in anticipation. A Freedom towers at the end of sixth avenue but I turn east on 10th street, ogling the foyers of west village townhouses with their high ceilings and refined silences. Somewhere near university place it occurs to me: I am smiling. Somewhere near university place it occurs to me there is a song in my step, a joy in my heart. I cross the east village in a hum, the avenues full of yellow cabs again, the asphalt buzzing, one could almost forget the years of death, of morgues in Central Park and careful whispers across window panes.
I cut through Tompkins square park, a cop car trailing me in silence past the darkest corners, and I finally understand again the feeling in my chest.
When I found myself breathing, after months of drowning, that was only the discovery of a survival. I was still heaving on the shoreline, still confusing tears for salt water.
Now, suddenly, on a Monday night in lower Manhattan, I wasn’t only alive anymore. Now, suddenly, I am living.
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