February is a foggy month for me. Not only because of the delightful British weather, but because I can't remember much from it. It was definitely work, too much work. Not enough sleep. Maybe too many bars. Actually, the same bar. I remember the vodka in my coffee cup at 6 am and not enough orange juice in it.
The ribs crushing my airway, my mind shutting down second by second, until my body took charge and transformed my daily existence in merely physical existing.
I can still feel the pain, it still draws the last bit of air from my lungs, just before I close my burning eyes, filled with dust and remorse, until I remember that I am a survivor.
A fucked up, ironic, paroxysmal mix of bad jokes, naivety, hopes and cold-heart syndrome. But a survivor.
I remember flights and sunrises on the bus, i remember corners that changed everything, I remember people. I remember my bones protruding the skin, my coffee-to-coffee existence and the first food I ingested in days.
And I remember the morning when the sun shone, I took in air and never let it go and promised myself that enough is enough.
Thank you, February, for teaching me that however dark is in there, I can always find the light.