He used to dim the lights in his room every night after he got back from work. He lit a candle and stared at it. He found it comforting to watch the flame burn slowly and peacefully. He lived by the sea, so he’d listen to the crashing waves too. In those moments, he felt content amidst his complicated emotions. It’s as if his melancholy changed shape and became more flexible, like clay. He could squeeze it now, and shape it into a heart, or a flower. Melancholy could look a little prettier.
He made himself warm lavender tea. It was a cold evening. He placed his cold hands around the warm mug. He felt warm too, as if all his contradictory feelings have melted and became one, like a huge abstract piece of art. In those moments, he didn’t feel the need to make sense of anything. He only felt peace.
He then grabbed a book and began reading. The stories transported him to another world. He was immersed in the feelings and thoughts of the characters, as if they were his own. He temporarily stood outside of himself. He didn’t have to run in countless thought loops. He didn’t have to navigate his past nor his future. He temporarily stood outside of time. He felt peace.
And in those peaceful evenings, his soul felt lighter, easier, simpler, and it put him at ease.
Perhaps his soul was light all along. But it took peaceful evenings to cut through the noise that was above it.