I've found the quote on one of the rather rare lazy afternoons, and I had to stop myself smiling, while reading it. It was a sappy Buddhist pseudo-quote - well as sappy as they get -, saying that when you meet the one you love, or maybe it was soulmate, I don't remember, your heart won't race and you won't feel butterflies and whatnot. You'll feel at ease, calm as a pond, tranquil.

And since I am completely aware of the misfortune that you I cannot even put into the bullseye, I cannot simply wrap you in this little description. You were, however, the person in my mind when I read those words, and the thought of you made me smile. Because that peace I've felt with you, that lack of all noise, stress, depression, emotions, well that was the most refreshing thing I've ever felt.

That said, I'm half-lying again, as I did tell you what made me feel that way, although then I called it the feeling of home. Because growing up without one, searching for one all my life, this is how I imagine it would feel like, to be at home. To be at ease, secure, motivated. Where you can walk around oddly, without a destination, talking odd things, and be happy about them. Maybe even get some resonance to answer and bring some tea to.

Writing, is what made me feel so. That's what I called it to you, over the table.  Planning it, doing it, working with it, the whole process is such a blissful place, or time, or dimension, or whatever you prefer calling it, of serenity. Now I have something to compare it to. You, to writing. Writing, to coming home. Coming home to you - well not that, sadly.

But who says translations and decoding didn't fail at one point, misinterpreting whatever connection it was they call love nowadays. Both the trashy and the elevated, because I can't tell the difference. I think what the Buddhists might have meant is any connection close enough to make your whole being resonate with happy calm whenever you get them close to yourself. That would be a much broader version of love I could legally stuff you into without embarrassing you and myself.

Have you ever clicked through these posts, I wonder. They are all silly portraits of people little changing me loved, all of their features and habits filtered through a thick layer of distortions I call my perception and memory. And look there, the loveless lover now whines about you!

But hey, you are home and that's that. You got me home by those well-aimed sentences, shot carelessly about creation. Well, not carelessly, I can't even imagine you being careless about that. But you made me type again, made me banish more words to the past, made me talk to the inner circle again, and reflect. Whatever, whoever, and however far you are, I feel gratitude towards your little soul. Now I have someone to blame why I began again.