She was staring at me with a look that clearly expressed she thought I was an asshole. I stared back at her and didn’t say anything, just watched to see what her next move would be.

After a few minutes she gave up torturing herself, but only because she could barely breathe and I didn’t figure that out because she expressed it, I figured it out because she’d gone from frantic to still after a few minutes. She again stared at me, but instead of irritation, her eyes expressed tiredness I recognized, the kind of stare that confirms you’ve just about checked out and are cool with it.

I walked over and lightly wrapped my fingers around her neck and realized what happened, so I proceeded to do what was necessary for her to breathe normally again. After a few minutes, the look came back, and she walked away as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. Apparently, she still thought I was an asshole.

This is Peace. I guess.

She’s still a kitten really but when I brought her home never put a collar on her, until she got out one day and it was apparent she’d need to find her way back since no one would know who she belonged to, microchip aside. So I put a collar on her, and what I mean by put a collar on her, is that I first earned unexpected war stripes on my arms and chest for the right to bedazzle her.

She then ran under the kitchen table and stared at me as I tended to my new scars. After a few minutes, she spent considerable time attempting to tear the collar off with her teeth and paws. It wasn’t long before it was tattered to ruins, but she was unsuccessful in removing it. She’d succeeded instead in making it tighter until she couldn’t move.

I got to thinking there was some lesson she was teaching me and how even though I’d gone through self-induced Elsa training I might be in some altered Hold state, like the scene in Braveheart, because no matter how much I move forward to attack life, my knot yet continues to tighten and choke my soul.

In my mind, I’m the cavalry living each day in the sheer will to overcome the spear-bearing cupid musketeers in my heart, but in my soul, I’m the car that doesn’t belong on the battleground of illusion at all.

The mind, the heart, and the illusions that drive us to fields of separation are the knots that strangle us into submission and realization that yet does not exist.

The battlefields we conjure and create are the choke, but we don’t need to set the stage for battle once we identify with being all sides of our own army, that once united forms a polyphony of love.

Wearing a white flag in the dark
Not having need to wave or hold
This is Peace. I guess.