025
For the first time, as far as I can remember, my mind is calm. It's silent inside my head. The whirring, ticking, thumping, scratching, screeching, droning, whispering white noise that once occupied my head had died down considerably, if not completely. It's so still, so gentle, so soft. My mind is able to take a deep breath, to inspire enough of the oxygen it always desperately needed, instead of the frantic hyperventilation it suffered. The circuits of my brain are relaxed, the neurons leisurely sending their impulses, coalescing with kindness into thoughts—a gentle jog, or perhaps a nice walk, compared to the previous erratic and frantic sprinting they once endured.
It started after the day of indoor rock-climbing. Perhaps a day of tackling walls had an effect on my battered brain. Perhaps my decreased intake of coffee helped as well— but no, it was the very next day, post-climbing. It's been four days since then and the effects are strong and steady. This might be my medicine, I dare hope. Just walls to climb. Maybe, just maybe, it's as simple as that.
It's so unbelievably, wonderfully quiet.