A Piece of Peace

Peace is one of those weird things that doesn’t ever happen, an impossible reverie to revel in until you learn to open your eyes and grow up.

In a world with the glass empty because while we were busy debating over which half matters, all the water evaporated, peace is a joke.

If you decide something is impractical, but your definition of that something is so impractical that even the most impractical person wouldn’t find it practical, you read it wrong.

For the only thing peace and perfection have in common is at the beginning, “p”.

Peace isn’t serenity: The riverbank bearing flowers with shimmering waters and whipped cream clouds is simply part of your inner calm when you meditate and it’s only after you come out of the trance that you see the small reed which bows and bends under the torrent of the thunderstorm, surrounded by a screeching gale, enduring a bombardment of aqueous cannonballs while watching the stronger surrender their dignity, but somehow manages not

to break.

What is peace but to wage war upon war? We are armed with our voices and sheer determination, power that can withstand fire from any military. We will die today to live tomorrow, and until there aren’t any sunrises left, hope will endure.

A bespectacled barrister could’ve told you the same: the country which he fought for with feet and tongue is now free, a democracy with corrupt politicians and incessant arguing but they created their flawed system all by themselves, and that is a beautiful thought, how we can make a piece of peace and peace by piece we’ll piece the peace together, pieces of a whole, until we are a ragtag quilt. We’ll be ripped, stained, torn, patched, slightly mauled, crooked stitches that might come undone so a piece will fly off, but

Peace will be stitched again.