Sometimes, in the gap between mountains, I can see the sky is dreaming and I get more life returned to me. It is a power coursing through me. It is a magic at my fingertips, and as I flex them there is nothing I can't hold.
I am who I am again, without the weight of pain dulling the edges of me like a blunt knife in your kitchen drawer.
I am who I am again, without the curtains pulled down over my eyes, without the dust settling on the piano keys of my spirit; and I remember how to play.
I am all inner cartwheels. I am energy and joy and mischief. Shake the ketchup bottle for years on end, then let the lid fly off while it is still in motion. That moment is me. All the sauce a glass bottle could contain released into the atmosphere at once. Flinging itself gleefully at a world which may or may not be prepared for it.
Then, the pain adjusts in me, like the tension on a kite and I become a load bearing wall. The magic falters, and it fades. I lose part of me. It is a pebble sinking below the water, and the last bubbles as it disappears are sorrowed sighs.
I don't have the resources for the whole of my own national grid. So, the lights wink out. The meter stops. The street lamps flicker.
But, I have met me once more and I am glad.