Treading the narrow strip of light in the doorway is a circus act, is at both times terrifying and exhilarating. You think maybe, maybe, you are getting out of here alive, nearly intact, think maybe it really was illness not your own hopelessness that painted the world in such drab colors. You think maybe when I wake up tomorrow this reprieve will be over. You avoid telling people for fear it will dissipate.
But I woke before dawn this morning, ecstasy coursing through my veins, I wanted not to sleep but to hold my eyes wide open, I wanted not to die but to do all the things opposite of that, only one of which is so simplistic as to live. The trees outside my window are knobby with emerging buds, they twist and stretch by the minute, the streets breathe, the air carries new scents, the future - the future! - unfurls and explodes in instances of fireworks, I wake up in a house full of ashes, yes,
but all the better to rise from,
my dear.
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