A ring of time. Comfort is a constant rhythm that draws out peace from dusty bookshelves. Stillness exists between each interjection of music. Love will remain in each moment when the sound dies. 

Why? you may wonder. Because it will always be present in the next second. It will always come back. Home is the empty space held tightly between seconds. 

A hand gently sweeps across its face in constant devotion. It does not tire. It needs no rest. It merely chases shadows around and back again across a face that will never wrinkle in old age. 

But a day will come when all things end. Its body will be destroyed. A face without eyes stares blankly ahead into the nothingness that is sure to come. But nothing has changed. The heartbeat is still ticking, even if you can’t hear it. Always and forever, it will be there. 

Time is music. 

So, I ask, what can this be?

Breathe, breathe, take deep breaths. That’s all you need to do. In and out is all it is. Calm is the robust playing of piano keys. Calm is the setting sun. Calm is the grains of sand beneath the still water. Calm is cool pebbles in the palm of your hand. Come away, and everything will be fine. Come back to what you hold most dear. Draw away the curtains, and reveal the candle through the open window. Let in the cool breeze, and take deep breaths. Peace will consume you like sleep. So rest assured, all is well. Change may come tomorrow, but your soul will remain forever. Listen deeply, and the calm will come. Rushing, like water, the peace will come, and remain always.

A tower of doubt. Aren’t we all? Is it the spirit or the structure that embodies its maker’s creative secrets? Each one of us is a castle by the sea. A giant, closed to the outside world against pounding waves of emotion. Over time, it will crumble against time’s all-encompassing shores. And yet, the dream will live on for eternity. The body will not remain. But the idea will last forever as a memory of another’s past in the form of things to come in one’s future. And so the dream becomes a reality; at last, all hope is not lost.

The castle’s decorations do not affect the protection it is meant to provide. After all, beauty is subjective, and therefore does not alter the interior design. The container only houses the gem of its existence - the soul. That is its purpose: a truth wrapped in silver paper.

Within the chambers, the fire will never go out. The embers writhe, kindle, and burn. Light blares forth from the windows with a vitality that can be seen from foreign coasts. Each light this powerful is enough to be seen through the mists; that is, as long as someone is watching. 

The towers are built up brick by brick. And yet, the structure’s fate remains mercilessly earthbound, colored in a perfect shade of humanity. With arms of stone, the building reaches skyward; always reaching, towering above the rest, yet it cannot grow. At its roots lives its deepest source of identity; it is the brick which remained from the first day of its construction - the idea that sparked in the eye of the believer. 

In its old age, the building begins to crumble in humility, and bow down to the sea. That is when we find ourselves helpless; it is the moment when our rationality withers to obey our emotions, and dreams become more vivid than reality. Lakes become mirrors, and suddenly our emotions reflect who we really are, as we look deeper into the ground. But the images in mirrors only reflect reality, and so the power is caught in between the light for only as long as we stay to see it. We must be careful to never turn away from our castles waiting for us by the sea. We turn our backs, and all that exists will fall away to dust. 

Today I served the homeless. They wore a lifetime of smiles trapped in the crinkles of their eyes. To each unique identity, happiness exists. Their laughter unlocked a world of memories, which can never be taken from them. They saw through eyes that had seen a thousand years in a single lifetime. Antiquity glossed over crystal blue and brown and grey eyes. And they watched, and they waited for glasses of juice and milk. And they were all smiles. 

I haven’t felt this peaceful in quite a while. I left feeling more refreshed than I had in ages. 

Out the back door, the afternoon sun greeted me when the doors opened wide upon counting three. We waited for the wind to come, but it never broke against us. Instead, a deeper rush of wind took hold, and left a comforting thought. Bliss.

And there it is. Life is the greatest paradox of all. A never-ending cycle of memories and fascination.

Yesterday, I was a giggly little girl at at the beach. I chased the waves, and squealed when I got wet. The setting was pure and simple. One of those little gems hidden away against the groves of Cypress trees, just waiting to be discovered. Yet, I remembered the place from years ago, and I was glad to find myself there again. 

I scoured the beach for the tiniest seashells I could find, just like the little girl from yesteryear. They were the miniatures of a world I had created for myself in my childhood. There I stood at the marriage of land and sea as the soft sea air rushed through me, and the jewelry came in with the frothy tide. Pink and purple and bright orange and broken and wild and innocent they came. The remains of creatures who had outgrown them and left them. Cherished by little girls as treasures, but in reality the seashells only returned in the humble backwash of the ocean. 

But there the little specimens await our delight in our discovery. And the waters continued to ebb and flow, but I could see that everything has a driving force behind it. And paradox again smiled its wry grin. 

Water, a symbol for emotion, wraps itself around our feet seamlessly as we step into the waves, only to pull away again, but always to return. Water is the genesis of life, but one cannot drink the seawater; the saltiness is overpowering and sickening. Life thrives in the ocean, but the water also soaks in the dead. And yet, the dead water moves as if it is alive, because it is the moon which is playing God. Its gravitational pull against the water will forever bring it forth and send it back again, as long as there is an Earth left for us. The tides patiently roll in, and the aquatic backbone oscillates with each ebb and flow, always and forever. 

Finally, it was time for me to go home. But I won’t forget the day when I remembered what it felt like to be a little girl again.