You make your way to the East Village at noon, when it slows down to its mid-day lull, when it looks like the home you could always return to. You navigate crosswalks without thinking, because it's rhythm sits in your veins despite the long absence. Their apartment like a second home, the children unaffected by your comings and goings because they've never known a day when you didn't belong to their lives. There is a magic to friends as family, you have long known it but never failed to be bowled over to see it in action. These are the support systems that will carry us all to the other end of this nightmare.
Later in the afternoon, you make your way over to the writing bar, tickled to find yourself in its neighborhood on a Monday, how New York gives you little pats of encouragement when it knows you need it. Sink into its colored lights, its soft music, its reminders of what you ever came into this life to do. When we forget the point of it all, that reminder can set us straight and get us to take a step again.
In this storm, I have lost my words, lost my way, I disintegrate like dust in the hospital corners but at the end of every hurricane, there is a dawn of stillness, there is a blank page where you can turn your turmoil to tales, where your bleeding heart can turn into a hand full of ink. In the darkest cloud, you still remain certain the sunlight of the Word will return to you again.
After all, in all this life, it has never let you down before.
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