The Lavender Pages

She sat cross-legged in the
dim hush of the room,
a lamp casting long purple shadows
across the pages of her journal.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:02):
The lavender pages. Whatever our souls are made of,
these two are the same. She satcross legged in the dim hush of
the room, a lamp casting longpurple shadows across the pages
of her journal. The house wasquiet asleep. Only the German

(00:25):
cuckoo clock broke the silence,the ticking like distant
footsteps.
But she was wide awake, pulsequietly chanting a name. There
were moments when she could feelhim before the words even came,
as if thoughts crossed chasms oftime and distance to find her.
Tonight was one of those nights.Earlier, she, full of brightness

(00:49):
and grace, greeted her friendsin big circle of love, smiling
the way they loved, deliveringkindness like communion wafers.
But inside, behind the softarmor of charm, she was
somewhere else entirely, asecret garden, locked from the
world, with a name carved intoevery tree.

(01:12):
No one noticed. They never did.She felt something unique in the
pantheon of her life. Seen,truly seen. As if her soul had a
shape that someone could finallytrace.
Wanted, yes, but not just acarnal lust that felled so many
through history. A desire forher thoughts, her cleverness,

(01:35):
her edges, her ruin. A kissedmind when others looked away.
Ache in that beautiful,dangerous way, the ache that
poetry understands, as thougheach rib was a string, and he a
bow taut and sinewy, everyletter from him a sonata, every
glance imagined, A chorus. Shedreamed of possibilities that

(01:59):
couldn't be.
Not in this world. Maybe not inthe next. In dreams and
whispered hours. In glancesexchanged across crowded rooms.
A liminal dwelling of existence.
She closed her journal slowly,placed it on the bedside table
like a secret relic. Then,stretching out across the

(02:20):
covers, she imagined the weightof a head on her chest and
fingers tracing poetry. He hadasked how her day went. He
always asked. No one else did.
Not like that. Not withreverence. And that made all the
difference. So she closed hereyes and let sleep take her

(02:41):
gently, drifting into firelightand lilac air, barefoot in the
studio, the scent of oil paintand summer, still whispering
poems as pierced realities, asif this time she wouldn't wake
up alone.