bookends

I walk out and the sky is clear for the first time in years.
It feels slightly wrong, but I allow myself to enjoy the sun.
I can finally see colors, and they are almost overwhelming for my once blind eyes. I'm in love with them.
I hear whispers and singing voices and a soft hum coming with the wind. I welcome the wind.
It's like the world is telling me everything that I missed when I was trapped in my cave.
"This is a flower", it says. "It blooms every spring, and it is beautiful."
I look at the flower. It is gorgeous, and I wish I could comprehend why.
"It is beautiful now. But it will wither, and the petals will fall.", I mumble. I remember looking at myself in the bathroom mirror and seeing my eyes wither.
"Yes, it will", the clouds hum. "But it will grow again next spring. It will not be the same, of course. They are never the same. But you will love it nonetheless."
I desperately hope so.
The world tells me about hundreds of different things. "This are birds," it says. "They trust the wind to help them get where they need to go, because they know they don't have to use all their strength. They can trust the wind."
"But what if the day is hot and dry?" I ask, remembering myself holding a hand that let me fall. "How will they get home?"
"Then," the trees answer, "they will fly themselves home until they can trust the wind again."
I start to believe it.
The world tells me about rainbows and rain and bumblebees and apples and about all the reasons why I'm not broken.
The world tells me it's not my fault. The world tells me it loves me nonetheless, and the world tells me I can trust it.
The world tells me I exist.
Everything exists, and for the first time in years, I'm glad it is so.