The sunlight streams through the warped and dusty glass set in industrial white frames, orange on the leaves that brush, ever so gently, against the crumbling brick of the house I like to call home. There is no way to describe peace, a hanging balance of sounds, and the absence of noise, a blank canvas, a peaceful picture. And yet it seems to me that peace has found its way here, through the absence of loud cars and industrials noises, but with the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the light that seems to make a sunset out of the middle of the day. No great monuments or sights as there are in Egypt or Rome, but the natural balance of green and yellow, bark and leaf, elegance and strength found in that growing giant that seems to stretch for the skies and rip up the ground; a tree. But listen, for there is the noise that disturbs this peace, my peace, the one that I have found. For nothing, as they say, lasts forever. And even now as I hear the roaring, groaning, whining motor of some bike tearing up the road, I wish it would leave, so I can find that peace again. But when it does, my peace, the one that is contrary, contradictory and conflicting, is disturbed, and there is no return to that lingering of time and space, that field where nothing moves, nothing happens, nothing changes. I must return, hesitantly, reluctantly, to the real world, where things are busy and loud and fake. No peace in the industrialised world, no quiet, no rest. Just cogs and wheels, grinding and jolting, screeching and shouting, all clamouring for attention. I sigh, put down my book, and return to the odorous duty assigned to me.
The cleaning of one’s house is, as described before, an odorous duty, something that must be done and yet is always put off for the sake of having something far more pleasant to attend to. Of course, at some point or other, that tell tale sign of coughing and sneezing, choking and wheezing as you pick up a long forgotten item and are infiltrated by an army of grey matter, reminds you of that, I repeat odorous, duty, and you must once again take out the long neglected duster, faded with age, and begin a thorough sweep of your belongings to uncover them from beneath the dust. Once done however, there is almost immediately that sense of relief, of weightlessness and somehow heaviness, as your tired body sags but your mind leaps and soars at the thought of not having to repeat this task for another few months, oh joy, rapture! The thought of having one’s free time to one’s self again, of being able to seek peace, or let it find you, and being able to relax knowing that every time you breath in, you are not weighing yourself down with more and more of the film of dust that somehow seems to creep back every time you clean it away.
I sit, quiet once more in my rocking chair, curled up, watching the sun begin to fade in the sky, falling away behind the horizon to visit another part of this world, and to shed light on a place I have never seen. I stay, my body curled up, tired and free on my rocking chair, whilst my mind leaps and bounds around the world, a world I have never seen the extent of. I taste the fragrances of France on lips that are not my own, smell the exotic spices of India through a nose not attached to my body. I float, feeling more weightless by the second, and soon, not through my own tired eyes drooping on my body, but through fresh new eyes that sparkle in the sunlight and flicker from one sight to the next with eagerness only a young child has, I see the sun, bright as it strokes its rays down, caressing my face. And the more I watch, the brighter the sun becomes, until, quite suddenly, it swallows me in to its warm centre, and I exist no more.