Her quest for peace

Peace. In a metropolitan city like London, peace seems to be a rare gem hidden among the rapid footsteps of tardy office workers, the awkward handshakes between newly acquainted colleagues, the turning of a page by an unsettled high school student, and the overpowered whispers for spare change ("please").  

I've been searching every nook and cranny for that hidden gem.  

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Tiny pellets of ice hit the surface of my windowpanes, mimicking the sound of metronomes clicking. This is it; the moment I've been looking for. I make myself a cup of hot chocolate, with extra chunks of marshmallows. I scan through the collection of books that I've accumulated over the years (some of which I actually haven't read). Ah, Wuthering Heights, my all-time favourite. I pick up my pristine copy of Emily Brontë's masterpiece, roll into my duvet and endeavour to experience peace amidst the storm hail. 

"Time brought resignation and a melancholy sweeter than common joy." I read the line over and over again. My hot chocolate is turning cold. The skies are clearing and a couple of residual raindrops trickle down my windowpanes. I get more and more restless by the second. I've done exactly what carefree girls do in Valencia-filtered Tumblr pictures. Yet, peace refuses to open its door.

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I hop on the last bus home. I'm all alone. The silence is deafening, so I put on my headphone and shuffle-play the new playlist on Spotify. Your Coffee Break. "Just the right blend of chill-out acoustic songs to work, relax, think and dream to," it promises. Maybe today I'll find solace in a good piece of music. Ten minutes into the journey and, for a moment, it seems as though peace is finally welcoming me into its embrace. As I take a cautious step into its presence, the screech of the bus tyres snaps me out of my reverie. It's time to get off. I take off my head phones and walk right back into reality.

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We lie down in our tent, with our heads perched out and our eyes fixed onto the sky. I lift up my hand - the one that isn't holding on to his - and reach out for the stars. The clouds are on leave today and the stars are out to play. I can almost hear them chuckling, dancing to the sound of the waves. I tilt my head to the left and observe the outline of his forehead, nose bridge, and then his lips. I think I've found my peace, right next to -- you.

We reminisce about the first time we met at the old bookstore down Charing Cross road. We talk about the absolutely perfect day that we've had, from the moment we opened our eyes to the splendour of the morning sun, to the picturesque view that we were greeted with at the peak of Scafell Pike. We discuss about the future that we envision - with you and I, our children, and our children's children. And suddenly, it isn't as perfect as it seems. The future that I dream of is one that is intricately designed to revolve around him; but his isn't the same. Nature's harmony is suddenly disrupted, as we erupt in words of fury.

I take it back. Screw you. Screw peace. Screw everything.

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The scorching sun looms high above and its rays barge through the curtains of my room to invade my slumber. I put my hands up to prevent my eyes from hurting. Damn it! The sun's up. I must be late for work. I grab the shirt and pants at the top of last night's pile of laundry, put them on and run for the 8:05 bus. I am at peace.

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I prepare a black suit for tonight's funeral. I hear Brie wailing from the adjacent room and it sends shards of ice straight through my heart. Tears build up at the corner of my eyes but I am at peace.

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I walk through the underground station at Waterloo (as I've done so for the past five years). "Excuse me!" An angry commuter brushes past me, as his shoulder slams right into my chest. If it was a year ago, I would've grabbed him by the arm and demanded for an apology. Instead, I let out a gentle sigh and utter under my breath, "bless you." I am at peace.

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Peace. In a metropolitan city like London, peace seems to be a rare gem but its one that I've finally found. It is not in the sound of raindrops on your rooftop. It is not in Yiruma's most tranquil melody, Kiss the Rain. It is not in the steady heartbeat from your lover's bosoms. It is not in a short getaway to the Lake District. It is from within.