What is truly a peaceful place? Is it a stereotypical utopia where there is an absence of worries? Is it the existence of solely unruffled and continuous emotions of joy and glee? Is it justified to confine something as illimitable as peace to something as limited and finite as a “happy perception”? In fact, a peaceful place is a place whose sole existence is capable of channeling your perturbations away from your already perplexed and agitated brain, it is a place whose mere mention can dilate your pitch black, abysmal pupils with every possible variety of merriment – making your senses apathetic towards sensations like feeling the sweat drops accumulated on your overworked sweat pores, creepily growing in volume every passing moment. It is a place that compels you to see the world through rose colored specs.
As you lay your head down, its equivalent of drowning into the silkiest clouds that are said to be present at the gates of heaven, its equivalent of feeling those long forgotten ounces of worth being transformed into catalysts that drive your hopeless, unworthy self to feel praiseworthy and commendable, it is equivalent of the most mellow and euphonious voice telling you, “It’s going to be ok.”
As her fingers that have been preyed upon by old age, and her nails being chipped away by time, brush past your flaky and bristly hair while conserving their amicable and cordial feeling, its equivalent of making your disheveled appearance metamorphosize into the most elegant sensation that you would feel that day, its equivalent of having your matted tangled hair being straightened in the most silkiest of manners, almost that you wouldn’t be able to feel it if you didn’t pay close attention, its equivalent of having nostalgia run between every strand of your hair shouting like a child saying, “Feels like the good old days.”
As you feel her hand resting softly on your face, it’s the most wholesome and empowering sensation that surges through your cheek, rather through your whole body, as it continues to flow through every vein and artery at the speed of light, and continues to do so even after your spirit starts radiating positive energy. Her hand acts as an absorbent material that sucks out all your troubles like the vacuum of space. Her presence shields you against any sort of culmination of negativity, any sort of tangible or intangible dangers, or any sort of irregularity that may put you at harm. Even with closed eyes, ironically you feel the safest you ever could.
As she is calmly positioned on the leathery, velvet cushioned sofa, your head, anchored on her lap, your eyes shut so tightly that prevent even a spec of a photon from entering your vision, you could sense every strand of hair on your body, that had been charged with static electricity, going to sleep as they return back to their relaxed form. You could feel positivity penetrating through every single skin pore on your body, patiently waiting to fill you up with it so that you surge with every sensation associated with happiness and comfort.
As you reluctantly open your eyes, you see hair that is wizened and straw like, so dry that they seem fossilized, nonetheless giving an impression of scintillating wires that are carrying electricity of the highest voltages. You realise how her gait should be wonky with arthritic joints and her eyesight failing faster than your school grades, you realise how her facial skin should no longer have a connection to the skull underneath, and you realise how her litheness and articulate speech are what get to you – an echo of youth in someone so old. Sometimes you want to pull away the mask of age to see the person inside, the girl she was all those years ago, until you realise that you don’t have to if because if you listen to her words and pay attention to her smile, to her eyes, she’s still in there as much as she ever was.
As you shift your head closer to her chest, you notice how her heart beats stubbornly within her pigeon chest, how her skin is so fragile it ruptures on anything more than the softest of touches. You realise open eyes are not focused but move randomly, white, obscured with cataracts so completely that I cannot tell her eye colour. Her hair is wispy over a scalp that shows signs of pressure sores, pink from constant contact with pillow or chair.
As you drift further and further into this temporary utopia, your hunger for this feeling becomes incomputable and inestimable with every passing fraction of a second. Like a young child who refuses to let go of their most prized toy, you refuse to ever leave this place, like a conqueror who has taken over every desired dynasty, and like a predator who refuses to share his victory over his prey with anyone else, as a son you refuse to leave the lap of your mother.