Write

Another day under the covers, another day of hollow, of filling the silence with vices, I have banged my head against the stubborn scar tissue of this illness so many times I no longer remember what I am fighting so hard for. What life is this, to live?

 But come evening, come sifting through piles of papers years in the making to find a map, and everything grows quiet. Old words, from a version of yourself you had forgotten existed, insights into emerging from illness, instructions for walking forward, fall from the pages in your hands. Tiny sparks in the synapses of your withering memories. You made the choices for a reason. A heart brimming with New York, with words unending, a reminder of madness and all the things that brought you here begin to fill empty space inside your rib cage, begins to hum along your eyelids. 

The answer was never going to be found in another miracle routine and better hair products. You were looking for a map, 

and you found it.