This here, this is what I have been dreaming of, for as long as I can remember. In the embrace of time’s steady march, I have found what my heart has longed for — a sanctuary of serenity and satisfaction, an ending to the restless chase for meaning. Here, I stand in the quietude of completion, where desire has faded into the outskirts of existence. The meaning of life, once an elusive whisper in the dark, now seems as distant as a forgotten dream. Let me tell you the tale of this enchanting life that has made it so, the one that has brought an end to all of my desires, a life so beautifully woven that it has made my search for a meaning redundant.

I live by the shores of Marbella, where the horizon is a soft caress of azure — the sky merging with the deeper blue of the ocean. Marbella, a jewel on the eastern coast of Costa del Sol, Andalusia, is a sight of timeless beauty. If I asked you to close your eyes and picture a town on the coast, of Spain, you would be picturing cobblestone streets winding past ancient castles, dark wooden piers stretching into tranquil waters, and houses painted a blinding white against the golden sand. That indeed would be Marbella, a place of exquisite charm and grace, matched only by one other — La Reina.

Ah, La Reina. I was supposed to have an exclusive right over the name I had given to my dearly beloved. But I have made my peace with the fact that other people have started to call her by the same name. Who could resist, for it is in fact a fitting tribute to her elegance. She moves with a grace that exhibits royalty, her every gesture a dance, her every glance a quiet contemplation. The name does her justice indeed, from the way she carries herself, the way she walks, the way she talks, to the way she smiles, the way she blinks, the way she stares into the void, thinking about who knows what. I like that, I like to watch her think about things. I like to watch her as she ponders the minutiae of life — about whether or not the deliveries are coming in on time from the butcher’s shop, about whether or not the flowers are going to stay alive in the vases, about whether or not all the boats will reach the marina before the sunset. Together, Reina and I run a modest resort on this pristine beach. It may not be a grand establishment, but it is indeed a quaint refuge where we offer comfort and peace to those seeking respite. We serve with love, and in return, we are sustained by the satisfaction it brings to other people. It is the simplest of existence, it is our little haven.

Right there, just about 2 minutes towards north, on the beach, where the water doesn’t quite reach the sand, that’s where I met Reina, what feels like a lifetime ago. We were kindred spirits, two lost souls, both of whom had come here with the same agendum, seeking the meaning of life, beneath the vast sky, before the endless sea. I don’t think we have found the meaning of life, but we ended up finding a beautiful life, together. That is more than either of us could have asked for. I had spent the entirety of my life, looking for something that would make me feel complete. Little did I know that that ‘thing’ would end up being a person.

On many an afternoon, I find myself lounging on a wooden deck, the sun warming my face while a gentle breeze stirs the sand. I close my eyes, letting the world drift away, content knowing that Reina is somewhere nearby, perhaps waiting for the next shipment of pastries or ordering flowers over the phone to surprise the newly-wed couple in room 12. We host a lot of couples, young and old. Often, we surprise them with complementary pleasantries. It takes money out of our own pockets, but in return it earns us a little more love. That’s what we live for really. I don’t know about the world out there, but within these walls here, Reina and I, that’s what we live for, love. And we’ve earned enough of it, doing what we like to do the most, giving that very same thing to strangers. Spreading love, one family at a time.

‘Reina’ means the queen, in España. Granted that our Kingdom doesn’t stretch much further than the land from the shores on the West to the driveway of the resort on the East. But really, that’s about as much as we’ve wanted to conquer. We are busy most of the day, but every day, when the sun goes down, from over the sea line, we walk out on to the beach, sit there on the sand and just, do nothing. For a long while, sitting in silence, we do nothing. There was a time when I used to think that this would get old, looking at the sunset, enjoying the quiet and appreciating life. But to my surprise, it does not. Whenever I feel like I have seen enough of the horizon, I look to my side and I see that same old beautiful face, staring into the sunset. I could spend hours, looking at the corner of her eyes, those lashes. Sometimes I put my finger on her cheek and run it over the curves on her face, over the jawline, under the cheekbones, on the chin, under the lower lip, across the neck. The wind isn’t very strong here, despite the fact that this is where the sea meets the land, but there is a constant breeze, it keeps her long hair flowing all the while. I can’t resist running my fingers through her hair. The moody darkening sky in the back makes her hair look like brush strokes on a painting. It looks very, breath-taking. Once in a while she would smile, putting up with me being silly and playful like that, but she never says anything, just sits there in silence. I guess she has gotten used to the annoyance that comes with a man in love.

When you love a person, you love everything about them. Sometimes, even their flaws. But what do I know? I am just a man, hopelessly, inexplicably, irretrievably in love. I love to watch her sleep, I love to watch her work, I love to watch her wonder and ponder. I love how she stands idly on the balcony or how she slowly walks by the seashore. I love her grace, her might, her kindness, her patience. I love how she complains about things and I love it when she finds relief. I love how she prioritizes the big things and I love how she celebrates the small things in life. I love how she cares, as much as I love how she fights. I love how she laughs and I love how she cries. I love her mind, her body and her soul. I love how she loves me and I love how I love her. And as long as I know how to love, life will be good. A life that loves well and is loved well, is a life that is lived well, regardless of whether it thinks it has been meaningful or not.

To fall, in love, with a woman — ah, the timeless enigma that has mesmerized poets, philosophers, and dreamers through the ages. In the annals of human experience, countless scriptures, penned over millennia, grapple with the ineffable nature of this most profound emotion. Yet, what a marvel it is to consider the physical attraction, that singular allure, which seems to transcend the machinations of the flesh. I do not speak of the mere jolt of lust that seizes the minds of men, when confronted with a vision of beauty of the female form — no, I speak of the exquisite desire that burgeons from the soil of true love. When she is but a fleeting image in your sight, her beauty is appreciated through the lens of a singular, primal instinct. But when you are enraptured by love, your perception expands to encompass every fiber of her being. The hormone oxytocin ignites a tempest within, rendering her imperfections invisible, transmuting every strand of her hair into a testament of divine artistry. Her smile — oh, that smile — has the power to elevate your heartbeat from the steady rhythm of sixty beats per minute to a fervent hundred, turning the existential doubt of the question of whether this painful existence is worth experiencing, into a resounding affirmation: yes, a hundred times yes, it is all worth it, all of it.

The dusty tomes of poetry, long relegated to forgotten shelves, suddenly emerge from obscurity, their verses now illuminated with startling clarity. The poet who once seemed foolish in his comparison of her hair to an ocean’s waves, now appears a sage. For her hair indeed becomes a boundless sea, its curls relentless waves of wonder that crash against the shores of your consciousness. And her eyes — those profound gemstones! — you could lose yourself within their depths until reality itself becomes a mere shadow. Every glance, every shift of their hue and curve of their lashes, is a mesmerizing dance that captivates the soul. The curve on her back, the delicate trail left by her footsteps, the graceful gestures of her hands as she speaks — all of these elements converge into a symphony of embodied beauty.

To you, she embodies the very essence of what humanity idealizes in the feminine form. Not in a way that is universally appreciated, but in the deeply personal and intimate realm of your own heart and soul. To run your fingers through her hair is to reclaim the energy squandered in the pursuit of goodness that the world often seems reluctant to return. To clasp her hand is to find the fortitude to persevere, to continue spreading that goodness regardless of the world’s indifference. And yet, the astonishing truth is that, this physical splendor is but a delightful bonus, an exquisite adornment to the deeper love you hold for the person who resides within this vessel. It can be pathologically argued that, the best days of being in love are perhaps the days of falling in love.

I find myself perched upon a quaint, brown bench, its once-sturdy wood now surrendering to the ravages of time. The bench, framed in wrought iron, boasts an elegant, almost whimsical design that hints at forgotten craftsmanship. It rests beside a winding bypass road on a gentle hill, directly before a grand, shadowy wooden house that stands sentinel against the chill. Wrapped in a heavy jacket with my hands buried deep in its pockets, I am swathed in a red scarf that feels incongruously bright against my otherwise muted attire. Why did I put this particular scarf on?

Facing north, the bench is kissed by the early November wind, which carries with it the crispness of the season. Morning rain has left its mark, draping the world in a delicate veil of dampness that harmonizes the hues of the landscape, softening the transition from autumn to winter. Nestled beside the bench stands a lamp post, its imposing iron frame echoing the bench’s weathered grace. As twilight descends, the northern vista unfurls in a breathtaking panorama, though the impending darkness makes the view increasingly elusive. The sun has nearly vanished, and with it, the warmth of the day is rapidly slipping away. Yet, I remain rooted to this spot, a sense of expectancy anchoring me here. The wind is a constant whisper, growing in intensity as the light fades. The landscape, once lush and vibrant with verdant hues and towering trees, is now swallowed by the encroaching gloom.

As the sky deepens into ink, the lamp post flickers to life, casting a solitary pool of yellow light that merges with the intruding night in a scene almost painterly in its stillness. In this quiet tableau of silence, darkness, and boundless space, the tranquility feels burdened, shadowed by the weight of my waiting. I am wearied by the relentless churn of thoughts, not for lack of substance, but for the fatigue of ceaseless contemplation. I resolve to simply exist in this moment, until a distant sound pierces the stillness — a rhythmic, deliberate pair of boots approaching. In the darkness, the figure remains unseen, but with each approaching step, a sense of reassurance blooms in my weary heart. The footfalls are precise, steady, and as they draw nearer, the promise of companionship warms the night. The sky murmurs in the distance, a reminder of the contiguous chill. Yet, I linger, unwilling to leave, eager to share this fragile peace with the person approaching. The scarf, I realize, I did not bring for myself, but for her, the companion to be, the one who would take a seat beside me on this damp bench, under a glimmering lamp. A token of warmth in the encroaching night, for a fellow stranger to face the vast cold abject darkness, together perhaps?