So I Write

“...snowfields and winds and Christopher Columbus.”

The chapter ends. I put the Kindle on the table and then raise my head to gaze at the street through the window right in front of me. It feels like I’m in a movie because of the music playing in the background. Some soft piano notes accompany the people crossing the street in my view. I watch them and think it indeed feels like I’m in a movie. But suddenly, like a lightning light in the sky, I remember to elude my emotions from my analytically-thinking mind. Only then do I realise this moment is not a movie for others to watch. It is a peaceful fragment of my unique experience on this planet called life. It is not a thing to describe but a sense, a reflex, an intuition to grasp deep down in my belly.

I hear the keyboard sounds coming from the desk behind me. There is someone else in the room. At that moment, an authoritative urge to explain how I feel appears inside my tiny little neurons. I glare at the traffic lights on the street and shut my half-open mouth, thinking that speaking about how I feel will ruin the moment. Instead, I try to acknowledge this unfamiliar sense I call peace in my bones. It is strange enough that it is what I have been looking for my whole life.

I don’t know about other people, but I, even as a little child, knew I lacked a peaceful mind. I was 6, and every breath I took caused me to suffer inside. I wanted to scream for hours; instead, I watched the walls of my bedroom that became a living room in daylight. Maybe that is why I always want to describe how I feel as soon as something good happens in my brain. I want to scream, “HEY, LOOK! I can feel good as well!”

Now I realise one cannot explain a pure emotion; he can only witness its presence in the body. So, I shut my half-open mouth and then my eyes. I enjoy each second, knowing it won’t last long enough to store up. I suddenly remember what can help with that is a remarkable act I always admire: writing. It always saves the day and the memories. So I write.

Overall, this unfamiliar sense I call peace feels like I am touching the trunk of a magnificent tree, perceiving each and every pattern of its body on my fingertips. I close my eyes. We become one. I remember where I came from, where I belonged.

So, I put the Kindle on the table to put this sense in my belly into words. Everything is happening in milliseconds. What I call peace becomes something I have been carrying inside all along. I thank the snowfields and winds and Christopher Columbus.