Tranquillity is like a day without wind: a free heart.
The gardens, along the street, are green in high Summer, and on the stairs of the buildings, girls play flutes without noticing who passes by. It's a subtle unconsciousness: a path always different or always equal, as long as it is felt as such or not. It is everything that to somebody might be nothing. It is the peace of going to the beach… during a day of the week. It is the possibility to sleep when others wake up. It is also being in pyjama at 7 o'clock in the afternoon.
Tranquillity only wants to be happy. And I look at her when she passes next me, always slowly, without hurry. Confident, without seeming to do much… but she does: she lives. During the day she speaks and laughs and at night, after looking through the window, she goes to sleep. And if she dreams, imagines the next day, or maybe not, she remembers the joy of the day. I don't know... I imagine her like this…
Even when I put my key on the lock of the door of my house, I still look behind, to see her once more. But, tranquillity, already goes away, right next to a not very far away corner. And I take a deep breath, tranquil, because I know that she will pass there again on the next day, tranquil, serene, as always. If she doesn't pass, she too doesn't need it, she already goes with me, on my breast, I just can't see her… I just feel her.