Permanent madness.


Sometimes I surprise myself by waking up early. Today was one of those days. As I groggily rubbed my eyes, the sleep barely leaving me, I thought of him.

He once ended one of his letters with a quote by Louis de Bernières. “Love is not breathlessness,” he wrote in blue. “It is not excitement… it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don’t blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being “in love”, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.”

I run my hands over his carefully written letter, the words urgently pressing into the other sheet of paper. His handwriting sometimes a scribble, but always beautiful.

Somewhere down the years, we slipped into this unfamiliar territory of great comfort. It’s as if there is no need to fill the moment with words or thoughts or anything that adds to the white noise around us.

Life does that I guess… sometimes, in between moments of hustle and bustle of everyday, there will be extraordinary moments of calm. A frame where the rush of young, naive love won’t exist. Moments where your otherwise racing heart (which I’ve learnt the hard way can be a disorder) will be calm, placid and tranquil. There won’t be a need to touch or hold hands or do anything physical other than simply, existing with each other.

These moments will keep you sane as you meticulously make your way through choppy waters.
This is not the calm before the storm.
This is the calm through the storm.

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