As I sit at my worn-out old desk and write, the coffee dregs at the bottom of my chipped yellow mug form a map of the labyrinth that is my mind. Outside the windows is a painted landscape that never fails to transport me to that sweet spot within my soul. It’s a scene that travels with me no matter where I go or who I’m with, gently dislodging the pieces of the puzzle and putting them back together with synchronized precision. It’s 6:30 pm and the sun is on its descent, leaving behind a trail of burnt orange and the million sighs of unfulfilled dreams. It’s the perfect mix of sadness and beauty that in a strange way, fills me with hope. Like a blood transfusion, it courses through me with the promise of a second chance at anything I have my heart set on. It’s my favourite time of day because it makes me feel like I’m standing on the tips of my toes at the threshold of hurting and letting go, of being and becoming, of chaos and harmony, of floating and drowning, of dissolving and composing.

I have always loved this transition of the hours as twilight spreads its delicate tentacles across the evening, gently ushering in the dusk, readying the sky for a star-spangled symphony, preparing for an indigo night of deathly silence before the creeping of a new dawn. If I ever feel like I belong, it is here, it is now, in this time that stretches over every space I ever move to. In all these years, there’s been only one soul to have tangoed with me at twilight, reminding me, playing by the rules, and then breaking them because how else can you play from the heart? That was a lifetime ago but it was never enough. So life decides to give you a second chance and you meet again. It’s the same time of day and you’re the same people but the moment feels different. How could it not? Because nothing colours moments like the silence that bursts through your eyes and the pores of your skin, the silence that tells you all you need to hear without the distraction of words.

For someone who has spent a lifetime dealing with words, there are times when I no longer need them. I don’t need to use them as vehicles for my thoughts and I don’t need them to be receptacles for my desires. That is when the words softly tread back and wait in the wings, patiently and in anticipation. Like the perfect English butler. That’s when the eyes take over and everything you need to receive and relay is done in perfect synchronicity. So you look and you smile and you know, you just know that the evening sky will always keep you together no matter where you may be. If only in your memories, if only in those pockets of time and space where you still exist, just the way you were, the way you used to be. 

Memories that float in the air like a bunch of balloons that got cut off at the string… The red one that reminds you of a sunset at the beach followed by a silly fight, the yellow one that reminds you of a long drive on a hot afternoon with your favourite songs streaming through the car speakers, the white one that brings back that precious moment on a rainy night in a narrow street under the harsh light of a street lamp with the vodka tonic lacing your insides and your favourite cigarettes clouding the air, the green balloon a reminder of the time you tucked into smoked chicken after a movie that made you laugh until your sides hurt, the black one that twists your heart into knots just like the beginning of the end…