A secret chord

I went to the beach this evening, alone, for the first time since i came back from Sydney. It had just rained and there was a certain stillness in the air. The sea was calm, the wind was cool, the trees stood refreshed, some of them with orange leaves. A tropical fall evening.

I walked, thinking about the number of panic attacks i had had at the beach in the past. I walked, content with the knowledge that i am stronger now than ever before.
Panic still comes and goes as he pleases. I don't fight him. I let him ride over me because i know that he will get tired and move on.
Everyday i tell myself that i am not going to die; that my headache is not a sign of brain tumor; that my cold won't turn into pneumonia. Of course, i could have a brain tumor and my cold could turn into pneumonia. But if i live thinking about these things, i can never fully live.

And i want to live. I want to travel to Provence and Paris and San Francisco and Hawaii and New Zealand. I want to write. I want to get my PhD. I want to marry the man i love. I want to watch DVDs and eat ice-cream with him after the kids have gone to bed. I want to have children. I want to push my children on the swings. I want to live in a house with a porch. I want to have breakfast on that porch. I want. I want. I want.
I want to live.