it’s like a shimmering current running through my veins, not a fight, but a strange, thrilling, ALIVE tremor that reminds me of everything I’ve let go of, every single expectation that used to chain me to a specific outcome, and then there’s this warmth that spreads from my chest, up into my throat, a peculiar mix of gratitude and the ghost of a tear, not a painful one, but more like the imprint of what used to be a storm, something so vast and demanding, that has now receded, leaving behind a kind of glistening dampness, and it’s beautiful in a way that aches, like looking at the incredible architecture of the city against the summer sky and remembering all the times the rumble of the L trains felt like a personal attack instead of just the pulse of chicago, and even that memory itself, it feels like a benevolent presence now, a reminder of the garden that grew in the scar, not erasing the cut but making it bloom, and this isn't me trying to MAKE sense of it, it's just the sensation of it, the way the edges of all these feelings blur and coalesce, no longer threatening to dissolve me but instead just... holding me, holding all of it.