The little boy upstairs wasn't screaming this morning.
I woke without terror, wondering why suddenly I was so content to stare at my naked shoulder before clambering into the shower,
for once I woke this morning without stress.
The radio today as it blared on at 6:12 was just finishing the weather before returning to a tune I was surprised to recognize as Debussy.
(I read somewhere that Debussy's anthems often follow the patterns of a schizophrenic episode but I've never gone far enough to look it up)
This morning I clambered out of the shower, happily noticing that my hair now reaches below the base of my neck even when it's curled, gleefully curious to find that just above my hips I seem to have once again developped those neat little muscled clefts.
This morning I thought of nothing, worried about nothing, gloried in my body and the imminent sunrise, had a conversation with a man in the metro about the book I've been reading.
I think I quite enjoyed the interlude... Whenever I breathe in I can feel my lungs expanding without convulsions of worry.
Today the tears are absorbed by the memories I know they will be part of in a hundred years, but not part of the angry mob constantly wailing on my conscience.