She said it out loud, to no one but herself: everything is amazing.

And although everything hadn’t been for so long, the pieces of her that cleaved away over these past few months—proof of a quiet metamorphosis—had finally turned to ash.

On this greying day she gazed down, where painted toes touched the ash, not knowing what else to do. It’s me, she thought, but also very much something else. She wondered what to do with that something else. How to treat this delicate artifact of a history.

Her mind took her places. Other places. Places that now lie distorted and covered in soot. When she arrived in these places and looked around at the walls of her yesterdays, fear crept into her throat and she choked a little on the bitter taste—how could she move on from this piece of her, however tarnished it may be?

But before she could collect those ashes in a perfectly lovely porcelain cup, the wind answered her. It echoed her words in whispers, “everything is amazing.” And she knew in her heart that she didn’t have to look down, because the wind had carried her ashes away.

—this post was grown on the gram.