the way the sun warms my eyelids even through closed blinds… like remembering a language i almost forgot i spoke. The body remembers. It's infuriating, actually, how my body remembers safety or trust long after my brain has compiled a lengthy list of reasons not to. It's like a phantom limb of feeling, aching for something I KNOW isn't there anymore, but still… the sun on my face, the memory of a hand held. "Let it go," my brain screams, but the skin sings on. It's the little sensory things, isn't it? The smell of old books, the way rain sounds on a tin roof... those are the anchors, the unexpected resurrections. Like a half-forgotten dream, vivid for a moment before dissolving again into the fog.