Love Drowns

I was chatting with some friends of mine yesterday and we were going on about how we are the ones that live for telling stories instead of living them as if we were good enough only for entertainment. And I am not really sure about this affirmation, but it contemplates what we were feeling about love.

Maybe some people manage to go deep on it, swim long, roam beyond, get to a little cozy island somewhere in love and take smooth naps under warm and welcoming sunrays, build a nice house and live there on a cool beach or into the woods. Maybe love is finding a bay for some and maybe it is about drowning in high sea storms for others. Maybe I am others. Maybe my place isn’t resting on the shore, but wrestling on the waves.

The problem is swimming is tiring and I keep seeing the pier on the horizon between one wave foam and the other. I cough, I sink, I linger underwater for some time, oblivious, forgotten, and forgetting, floating among purplish see-through jellyfishes and yellowsome slow-dancing anemones — until the next sea flow takes me up back to fighting the waves and storms again.

Is that what love will ever mean to me? This soaking battle, no lifeguard, no lifeboat, only drowning and revolving, like an eternal Davy Jones crying to a broken love music box, broken myself, breaking myself.

And telling the others: this time, it didn’t work — as if it would any day — and seeing them eager to know how it failed again. For starts, it already began as a failure. So let me tell you…

How I came to lock my heart away in a box and let it rest under the sea, where it is unreachable, even for me, let alone other silly people who don’t know how to go deep.

For those who do, well, for those who do there are no guarantees. Maybe it is soaked and drowned beyond restoration. So why take the risk?

I float away. Saying float away with me, baby… Because I’m hungry for a change.