It must've been something to do with Belonging. Fitting into shells carved out in another's soul, meant for you. Empty spaces we keep locked up inside, afraid to show the cocoons that might just be the Cinderella's-shoe to someone else's hurting soul. Slip inside to remedies, comfort, protection...whatever it is you're looking for.
What is inner peace? Is it inside yourself or inside the cocoon within another? Every time I see him with heartbreaking vulnerability and an ache deep inside my soul, I find my inner peace is inside him. Maybe that's why they call it 'inner', and don't attach pronouns with it..Inner could be inside anyone, not necessarily yourself.

Home is where the heart is. Peace is where you fit. Or maybe, who you fit. Maybe they're all one and the same thing. Maybe Plato was right when he said what he did about soul-mates.

Maybe.


(admitting to your vulnerability when so much of it resides in someone else can be a very difficult thing)

story

When I was finally ushered in, I found her standing, draped in chiffon (that lovely elegance), by the golden sunlight, still pale against her.
Maybe other eyes disagreed, her life had worn her down, but to me, she was as full of magical exuberance as when I had first seen her...so, so long ago.
Her voice arose, shattering the silence and my nerves.
'I do so love a good story...and hate a poor ending.'
Pause.
'What about endings you spend years toying with, but never quite find out about?'
'Well, those are just the absolute worst, aren't they?' She said, finally turning to face me.

Even in that millisecond, I knew that I still hated her, I could still hate her. After so long, I had envisioned her leaping to turn towards me at the creak of the door, the fall of my footstep or perhaps, perhaps composed herself just until the first syllable left my lips.

She had still resisted.
Even now, she wouldn't grant me the comfort of this small victory.

 

................................

 

 

yellow wilting petals between hurried feet, the swish of a red pallu. white marble tiles and blue sky.
there was golden sunlight playing with the green in her eyes, i recall. she was smiling at me. fiesty, always so.

no, not feisty, tempestuous.she was the summer storm in all its glory, twirling and twirling amid red chiffon and yelloworange marigolds, threading themselves feebly through her toes in an effort to
become the Joy that was her.

.............

i play images like a disc on repeat, images like a vintage song of old. and almost magically, almost out of lovelorn nostalgia,...i can still smell the summer sticky heat, and the crushed marigolds of the gardens.
i keep playing.... looking for that infinitesimal moment somewhere between us that has lead to this; me, clawing at wispy memories, swishes of an uncontrollable breeze.

i smile wryly, thinking...how could it be that i grasp that moment?
it is, after all, impossible to capture the storm in an outstretched palm.

And then, to capture her?

.........
Such an exercise in futility..

The nights are long and cold but for when I see your face my heart explodes with sunbeams.

........
These are some tough times jaan, but for you,
A thousand times over.