Spill coffee in your keyboard, it begins a strange and frazzled journey across the documents on your screen, telling its own stories, unleashing its vulnerable secrets into a world unprepared. You disconnect it, wipe it down, give it a moment's rest. Think how you've done something similar for yourself of late. You've been reset and come back better. Your mental illness wanes in the background.
Everything is May now. Everything is the chance to get away, to start afresh, see potential beyond the horizon. It took you longer to get there this year, winter an endless sludge around your senses, but you arrived at last in the sunlight. Now you get to spring forward, now you get to be the parts of yourself that are easy to love.
Now you get to live.
When you say spring is a gift every year, that is what you mean. When you say May comes in like the first breath of air after drowning in the sea, it is not hyperbole. When you spend so much time just waiting to not have to survive anymore, wanting to live becomes a treasure above all others.
Now you get to live.
So you intend to.
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