The mornings are the best. There is the smell of cow dung, roses and sunlight everywhere. When I wake up back in Sri Lanka, I will yearn for this. After a brutal night of freezing cold, the mornings are welcomed with open arms, and I will forever remember this ying and yang of pain and delight. I find myself full of thoughts as though I am a vase; mud, clay, porcelain, and life fill me up and as I write, I bloom. I shed away my old skin, drop my petals and expose myself to the words I write. It is scary. I do not trust everyone with my thoughts, but you gentle lover, I trust you with my brokeness. You will treat it with kindness, not judgment. Compassion, not cruelty. Tread softly, for you are walking on the eggshells of my soul. Without a pen, I would not have made it this far. The pen is my knife and I cut myself every once in a while to release me. Ink flows out of my veins and I am complete. I understand why she kept a diary. It is for release. Life is sometimes too overwhelming, too fast and too full to hold within you, that you need to break something, even a small slit in your mind to let it all go.

There are friends and lovers and family all around me. I feel the sun and its wisdom upon humankind. It washes over man, woman, child, animal and plant, and it releases us all. A steady drip drip of life trickling down to us and we are alive. And safe. I would live here forever. There is music here that wraps around me to keep me safe; a musical cocoon of melancholy where I meet her, again and again. There are now no words here. Only a silent understanding as his hands reach out to me, around my broken heart and cradle me so that atleast, for now, the broken pieces inside me are held together in place.

P.s. I’m sorry, I now know how you felt.

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