Dig

And you call me to come
and I do. 

The wind comes in from Kansas, vows to lift you away to yellow brick roads, whispers of poetic winters upstate. It's like you tasted freedom for the first time and now cannot get enough. As though you didn't have a lifetime of freedom under your belt. 

Resurfacing from out of the rubble of an illness is like rebirth, then, like you had in fact not lived a lifetime of freedom, like you had not, in fact, lived a life at all, but appeared on the map a blank slate, a white sheet of paper. 

You take the chance you were given. 

Decide to rewrite the story in colors all your own.