Reuniting with my twin flame – Red Sunset without its own Dawn

Attente bleue

Another month during which my twin flame and I barely communicated passed

But I knew deep changes were happening for her since I had visited her in the Netherlands and she had cried for the first time for herself

She had quitted a side job she had and which was time and energy consuming

She had resumed writing, and she spoke of a writing fever she sometimes felt pushing her to create and create, and I felt an echo of it in my body too

Now, she wanted to develop on her own, and I respected that, I didn’t feel confident enough for breaking our silence too often

My life was about to change too as I’d leave my job in July, and we were already in May

but still, it was weighing a lot on me, and my creativity that had been sucked away for a long time only returned droplet after droplet

I still struggled to write, and I very rarely painted as I was never satisfied with the results except when I painted with Chantal, my paintress best friend and sister soul

From her side things had progressed as her painter twin had left his boyfriend and was now living alone in his atelier in ********

And he had decided to organize a collective exhibition, as he took care of an art space on the same floor as his studio

And he invited Chantal to expose one of her watercolor painting there, and me to read a few of my poems

We were surprised to be invited, elated to go

But at the same time one small painting for Chantal to show wasn’t much, as there would be a lot of artists implicated

A couple of weeks before the exhibition we visited the painter and learnt things had not been cut off in a very clear way with his boyfriend, as he too took care of the art space, and there was still some sort of bond between the two

We noticed the painter still idealized his ancient boyfriend, despite all the miseries he had lived in the last months of their relationship

And all that was mirrored in Chantal who was afraid to lose me, who was offended each time I didn’t speak her or write her for half a day

A very deep insecurity was being uncovered in her, that of being abandoned again, and I was the one she was afraid to be abandoned by

because she had never been so close with someone, and all the persons she had been close to in the past had abandoned her

And it weighed on me and made me impatient with her sometimes, because I didn’t share her insecurity

what instead ate me from within was my impatience, and my strong desire to be reunited with my twin flame the soonest

and so all what I perceived to be hampering the reunion, I fought with all my anger and my intensity

but I could not always be coherent with myself, with this impatience

there were days when I didn’t feel like fighting, and all the things I repressed such as anguishes and sexuality and emotional need resurfaced and I needed to live them with the appetite of someone who has been deprived from them for a long time

I forgot to tell of another meeting we had with the painter one or two months before

we had visited him in an impromptus manner as we often did, and he invited us in

and he started painting when we arrived, and proposed Chantal to paint too

I remained in a nearby room and cooked lentils meanwhile as it was already late, warming myself by the hot plate as it was quite cold

at a moment the painter put his music on, and suddenly the abandoned factory was submerged in the most beautiful and emotional music one could find

and that particular moment reinforced me in my conviction he was indeed Chantal’s twin soul, because I still had doubts sometimes

that night Chantal painted a small watercolor but she told me afterwards she had been quite insecure to paint close to him, as she had felt watched

The day of the exhibition at which I’d read some of my poems arrived

and there were many people in those spaces that were usually empty and cold and dimly lit

Spring was flourishing outside already

there were too many people to discuss with the painter

but afterwards we remained for dinner with his mentor and his ex boyfriend

you may imagine it was a bit awkward but it wasn’t really

Chantal had not declared her flame yet, and no one could imagine from our parts anything but a genuine interest, which was the truth

The mentor loved us because he had felt we were doing a lot of good to the painter, who had been really low since the break up, and had even thrown himself from a balcony when he had felt the most desperate, with little physical consequences

his fragility had scared his mentor, even though from subsequent discussion with the painter we learnt it had been quite liberating to throw himself and win his fear of death

and indeed afterwards he had lived a renewal which he attributed to the book, Anam Cara, we had gifted him

The ex boyfriend did not treat us differently from how he treated others, rather kindly but with some reserves

however he did not show any reserve when asking the painter how many canvases had been sold, the canvases of other artists that participated in the exhibition

and reproving him on the poor job he had done of selling only three canvases

and we noticed too how much these discussions tired the painter and put him ill-at-ease, and it comforted us in our opinion that this exhibition space he took care of was more a hassle preventing him from being focused on his own painting

while the mentor tried to protect the painter and present the situation under a better light

at the end we had missed the last train and the mentor accompanied us back to Lausanne

we arrived slightly confused, because each time we saw the painter we were disappointed noticing how much work was still to be done

In February we had thought we weren’t very far from reunion, when my writress twin had cried and the painter had moved to live on his own

but in May we saw the road was still long and steep

It’s about at that time I started corresponding again with my twin flame

we wrote each other small mails, and sometimes we even exchanged messages on whatsapp

Often her mails brought me more anguish than relief as she was distant and never showed the warmth of her feelings

other times when she shared a more poetic and fluid writing they made me happier

but there always was confrontation in the air

and unspoken things I could not yet well-formulate out of fear

I wrote her two poems at the time

the first was called the Moonstone


Every time I try to write

I try to focus my thoughts on an idea

On words

A thick mist rises from the marshland of my spirit

Drowning everything in fog


The idea that seemed bright but a moment ago

Is now entirely blurred

It takes an incredible amount of energy to remember even

And then it is gone in the mist


There’s a place in my spirit

A black hole, a shadowed valley

A secret garden

Where all these scattered ideas gather



The shining town

Shining under the blazing sun like a lighthouse in the farness

Built of so light a stone it can float on water

When the season of rains brings all the rivers to these lowlands

Covering the barren rock with water and fish and life


A town inhabited by a people who wander across the lowlands

Mining the rock underneath and extracting the precious stone when all the water is gone by summertime

Lighting fire pits all around the failed ship in the dazzling heat

Dark plumes reaching the sky while the stone melts

Vegetables grown in the north shadow of the buildings

And cactus on their flat rooftops

And hens running in little enclosures

Fortunately the stone does not absorb the heat

It remains almost cool to the touch and does not burn their bare feet


Traveling the wide lake as the winter returns

And exchanging goods with the towns built on the mainland

Moving from port to port

Stopping by fishermen villages and sprawling cities alike

Selling the strange stone and buying wheat and acorn and spices and clothes


It is a stone that bears many names

Depending on the way it is extracted, processed

Its most fulfilled shape is the notorious moonstone

To exist in that form it must be picked up on full moon nights of the dry season

These nights are festival times in the shining town

Like harvest times on the mainland

All the people gather around the pits

Singing and dancing round the stone that will become moonlike

Cactus liquor mixed with fresh water is served

And little by little the brightness of the stone aligns on that of the moon

Dazzlingly white when it is full

And entirely dark when it wanes and disappears


And the second was called the Wall, as she had told me to write about this wall between us

This wall has a history; in every stone, in every chunk of mortar and gravel, he remembers and awakens memories.

He is the bark of a tree, protecting inner vessels against rains and winds, frosts and droughts.

He has many layers, every season adding up its own peel to the previous, tender at first, growing harder.


It is the wall that surrounds and protects your heart

This sacred cathedral that dwells into your body and gives you light

It is built on a hill; from one side there’s a cliff, the ocean below licking at the grey rocky shore

From the other side, a town sprawls in an orderly manner

Limited by a river where rise a mill and by the bridge a watchtower


It would have been a town like any other

Save for its cathedral chiseled in the finest moostone

Appearing and disappearing with the tides of the moon

Pouring a white, silvery light into the rest of the city

Breaking through the darkness that cloaks buildings otherwise


Weakened but still standing

The wall prevents most of the moonlight from filtering into the town

And the dark fumes linger in and around buildings trapped by low ceilings and narrow streets

This wall stands between your body and your heart

It stands between your mind and your soul

It forbids you from loving yourself

It keeps in its rocks the history of all what happened, the hurts and the wounds that must be exposed to the air, and healed

It stands between you and effortless writing, between you and freedom, between you and happiness

It stands between you and me

And indeed, there still was a wall between us even if I already hoped it would fall down after writing my poem, in my usual impatience

It’s at that time that ants first appeared in my room, driving me crazy

every time I felt she was oppressed, ants pullulated in a new corner

it anguished me because it entirely defied my control, I was afraid they’d go on my food and ruin it

and I started cooking for myself with anguish, instead of being a moment of relaxation and pleasure, as I live in a tiny studio where kitchen and bed and working table fit in a few squared meters

I even started entering my room with apprehension, afraid to see columns of ants

It became a horrendous anguish for me, and it was Chantal’s time to reassure me

At first I fought the ants with water and soap, killing all those I saw with the hope they’d lose the entry track to my room if I mixed up their scent trails

but it didn’t work, and Chantal kept on telling me to accept them, to love them

and that was the only way for them to go

But I didn’t believe her at the time, I couldn’t and spent many efforts in fighting them

and when I finally succeeded in blocking the black ants by filling the tiny cracks in my kitchen walls

I had a few days of peace, before tiny red ants appeared, seeming to go out from every crack in all my room

and soon I realized it was impossible to fight them, and started to let them be, still disgusted, still afraid

I painted a watercolor at the time I sent to my twin I called faceless and nameless

I had never drawn a face but I thought it resembled her somehow

and there was a tree taking root at the back of her mind as if to symbolize the black hole that was there, sucking away all her memories, all her feelings


Faceless and nameless erik zakhia twin flames


and after sending her that watercolor I felt a resurgence of anguishes

At the end of June, I felt that things were slowly moving for me

the three months that had seemed like an eternity were finally taking an end

and I’d soon be delivered of my job

Chantal too was ending the long internship she had done, and was eager to finally dedicate herself to painting

despite the reserves and worries of her parents

An entangled mass of things still weighted on me though, the lack of acceptance of my family for my new life choices, the still too low energy level I had to write

the positive note was that since May I had retrieved my taste for reading

at first I’d fall asleep while turning the leaves, something that had never occurred to me in my entire life, as I don’t sleep easily usually

but by June I read hundreds of pages per week and didn’t hesitate to bring my novels at work to advance in my readings during breaks

July started as new phase of silence cast its shadow on me and my twin

she wrote me one final mail where she didn’t ask me any question

telling me it had been days she thought of writing me, but pushed it away as a chore

and she sent me the short story she had written one year before and that was in Dutch

I had to read it on google translate, and I read it several times

It was a story resembling our story, though it took place in a more fantasy way, and what happened when twins met the first time was called Synchronization

and it absolutely disrupted the nervous connections in their brain and brought upheaval to their lives

and she told the story of the heroine who had to spent several months in a hospital taking anti-depressors, slowly dulled by the medications and the doctors

and how she finally managed to escape and drew again and again the visions she had, and felt an enormous gap with her family and her friends getting frighteningly deep

and how she lived tastelessly for eleven years, until she started traveling from place to place trying to catch these moments of synchronization when they occurred

and one day it was her turn again, eleven years after their first encounter, she met her twin again and they fused together

Reading her story made me a little more confident and offered me an interesting perspective of how she had viewed all our story from the start

as something deeply frightening happening to her

but also something she profoundly desired

she wanted me and missed me as much as I missed and wanted her

except that I was chasing her and she was running away

as two dancers who are still looking for a balance

but can’t avoid mirroring the gesture of their partner


“Attente bleue” is a watercolor painting by Chantal Peguiron

You can continue your reading with the next part of this story Hazen and Twins of Wyrd

Instead, if you’re new here, you can start reading this story from the beginning with chapter 1 – The Dream, or the previous chapter Fragments of Truth


About Erik Vincenti Zakhia

Dear all, I will share with you many of my poems, short stories, drawings and paintings telling of my journey of self-discovery and my reflections about life, love, art, spirituality, sexuality, kundalini rise, and twin flames. They all fall within the realm of Hazen. May you have an inspiring visit!


  1. Pingback: Reuniting with my twin flame – Fragments of Truth | Erik Vincenti Zakhia

  2. Pingback: Reuniting with my twin flame – Hazen and Twins of Wyrd | Erik Vincenti Zakhia

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