My Goldilocks Pill Jar

The weight I carried has settled, not vanished, but pinned in place - a fragile truce between my mind and the pills I swallow, trembling. They don’t call it a cure, and I don’t ask for one; but it’s enough to feel the unraveling slow. I feel the world bleed into softer shapes, colours no longer clawing at my skin, the air no longer suffocating with noise. The chaos still growls, caged but alive, watching, waiting, but I stand, grounded, no longer flinching at silence, or the darkness I once begged to swallow me whole. I don’t ache with every breath anymore, the oppression of my thoughts no longer crushing, gnawing at my chest. I don’t fight shadows that cling like chains, or drown in static, my mind splintering. Now, I wake, and the world’s no longer a battlefield - for the first time in years, I feel the weight of the earth beneath me, no longer lost. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to stand on.