After seven days had passed, I couldn’t remember a thing. I realised that I had lived, and time had flown. Like a dandelion’s feathers on the wind, I had been drifting, but I did not feel lost. There was clarity after the oblivion. There was purpose after the wandering.
But was it me who had lived? Were they my memories? Or had I slipped out of my mind like a nightdress and put something else on? Had I woken up every morning and fought to keep living?
After I opened my eyes that day, with the absence of fire in my chest and the sweetness of breath on my tongue, I realised then that I was fully alive.
I was well. And everything else before was like floating up from under the water after nearly drowning. I had arrived on the other side, grateful that everything was only a memory and I could live to see better days.
