Was there ever a passion that remained a secret? Was there ever a love that didn’t end in fire—in the explosion of fireworks, a blinding spectrum of lights that warned everyone else to stay away, that cradled you close in its church of light and warmth and feeling—or in the cold embers of a love extinguished by a jealous wind that proved to be stronger, or by a betraying, blinding fistful of sand that tries to cover up everything that was once alive and breathing, or by a shower of tears when one lover has a change of heart and ceases to be a lover?
Perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it’s much better, this sanctuary of myself, this cocoon of self-imposed darkness, this unsettling quietness, this unsettled heart, this unset moon. Perhaps it’s better in this tiny harbor of loneliness, better than the tempestuous waters of the wide and open ocean, where my ship could tip without a moment’s notice, where my heart could be dashed against the teeth of the icebergs or against the hungry cliffs, where my soul is mocked by the mournful wailing of the seagulls. Continue Reading