Longing or Peace

There is a season when longing no longer demands attention,

yet has not disappeared.

It lingers softly—

not as ache,

but as memory resting in the body.

Many believe peace arrives when wanting ends.

When clarity replaces uncertainty.

When only the good remains.

But the heart does not work in straight lines.

Peace comes differently.

It arrives when longing is no longer resisted,

when it is allowed to exist without direction.

Longing does not always mean something is missing.

Sometimes it means something mattered.

Sometimes it means love learned how to stay without reaching.

There is a quiet strength in this place—

wanting without pursuing,

missing without imagining,

holding tenderness without building stories around it.

Fantasy is loud.

It rushes ahead, narrates outcomes, fills silence with meaning.

But real connection is quieter.

It does not ask to be interpreted.

It does not pull the heart out of the present moment.

Here, longing and peace coexist.

Peace does not require certainty.

It allows the feeling to move through, untouched by urgency.

In this space, the body softens.

The mind stops scanning for signs.

The heart remains open—steady, uncollapsed.

This is where words begin to change.

Writing no longer reaches.

It no longer explains.

It no longer tries to resolve what life has not yet completed.

It listens.

Sentences slow.

Silence carries weight.

Meaning rises on its own.

Nothing needs to be decided here.

Nothing needs to arrive.

Being fully present is not a pause.

It is its own form of arrival.

Perhaps peace has never been the absence of longing—

but the ability to hold it

without losing oneself.