You can never tell what it will be like. Could be the clearest moment, silent, calm, hopeful. Could be a dark hole to curl up in, lost and shaking like a hunted animal. That endless stretch of time just before dawn and the first birds. When everything is so much larger, echos inside my head, the drum of my heartbeat all the way to my fingertips.
Sometimes, too many thoughts, swirling and hammering inside my mind, are forcing me to still them with my breath. Other times, I am floating, thinking if this is it, so what.
And always. Daylight, slowly, miraculously.
Last night, my mind was writing a thank you letter to Colm Tóibin. I told him that I read almost everything he has written so far, from back in the days when he had a full head of hair to the first chapter of his latest book. I especially thanked him for writing this:
She ... made her tea as though it were an ordinary Monday and she could take her ease. She put less milk than usual into the scalding tea and made herself drink it, proving to herself that she could do anything now, face anything.
And before I knew it, I told him about the silent darkness and how one day when I was feeling really low, my child called from the other side of the planet and put on her giraffe costume.
And how this made everything alright again. Because.