Most times calm is a feeling. The quietening of a racing pulse. My feet returning to the ground after days of floating just a few inches off, anchor-less.
Sometimes, calm is a deadline met. Well before time. Sheer delight billowing the insides of my heart.
Calm is the obvious lack of worry. Worry that’s draining from my finger tips. Worry that never belonged here, but that somehow had made itself so at home.
Calm is an enjoyable book that’s melting away faster than I realise. Blurring the line between its last page and I.
Sometimes calm is reassurance. The weight of the hand that rests on my chest, slowing my very being down.
Calm, it’s thin, like vapour. Like the invisible evening dew that wraps itself around me.
Calm is like quiet solace trapped, like hot air rising to the ceiling.
Sometimes calm is an afternoon. Sometimes it’s solitude. Sometimes it’s a room.