I hope you brought your walking shoes
'Cause it's quite a ways, from what I understand

 The itch returns, it calls and aches and thrashes against the great cavern that is your chest. You listen only to voices who speak of a life beyond, imagine only futures where the wheels are rolling. Your therapist flails with questionnaires and platitudes, so you hide the knives in the drawer. Spare her the inconvenience of seeing your blood on the tracks. 

Emerging from out of years of illness is like lifting a heavy blanket off yourself and finding an entire world on the other side, a world that carried on without you and which offered horizons you could no longer imagine existed. When every day is just about putting one foot in front of the other to get to the finish line of surviving it, it's hard to remember that
you used to know how to fly.