I am, after what seemed like ages, at peace. With myself, and to a certain extent, with the world.
No battles, no wars. No wounds, blood or dulling ache. Much less, gut-wrenching pain. A few scars here and there, but mostly the kind that is not associated with painful memories. There’s the occasional tears but they are overshadowed by laughter and guttural screams of passion. Just facts, stripped naked of aesthetic embellishment. No expectations. Take life as it comes, they say. It occurred to me that I always did.
But now – and this is where I can attest that I’m all grown up – there is no question of negative reaction, not even the obsession with what am I getting out of this?
Detachment is pristine and liberating. It is beyond numbness. It is actually a beautiful process when you think about it.
Phase one: The numbness set in.
Phase two: It waited till all was healed and there is nothing left but scabs that will come off even at the slightest air movement.
Phase three: It took off and now there is only lasting peace.
It is true, after all. To break me is difficult.
Earlier I was all zen-like because of my imagined bipolar tendencies finally showing some semblance of equilibrium. Now it is because of abstracted fluid moderation. That was there too, previously. Only this time, the former has been toned down to a level where it is but a microscopic state of confusion radiating a macroscopic state of serenity.
In short, I am happy.
And to the man who stood by my side for nearly 730 days and counting… Happy Anniversary Pandabear, and know that you are loved enormement.