Blinking lights right in front of me. Is this the landing strip?
Wandering through thick marshland for months. The twigs have scarred my face. Crusty wounds, some infected, some just ugly. Scarred? Only time will tell. My feet are full of mud. I pull heavily, moving forward. My hair is messy, my brain even more so.
Darkness has been the companion, a spiritual guide that does not mean well. If you haven’t seen light in a few days the eyes – entry path for the soul – adapt. The soul isn’t sure whether it is day or night. I was not so sure myself.
I smell wet grass. I see rays of light breaking through the thick wall of trees. The burn, on my skin, in my eyes. Skin as white as paper, getting gently radiated by real, authentic UV rays. How I longed for this radiation only my past self from the last winter can tell.
I step out, ugly. A hunchback with scars. I need to learn how to stand upright again.
A plastic stool. Tiny, almost ridiculously small. An even smaller table. A bucket, full of ice. A beer bottle, cold to the touch, condensation even promiscuously rolling down the neck in thick drops.
Sun shines. A deer hands me some sunglasses. A bird comes by and drops a hat. A bear kicks my back into proper posture.
I take a seat in the ray of sunshine. A turtle comes out from the pond. On its back, a bowl. Hot noodles, coriander.
I slurp, I drink.
A break in a place I know I belong. Can’t wait.