september 4th, 2007

i love the ocean. i dream about it. i spend most days, at some point or another, desperately wishing i was close to it. when i finally am close--right next to it, standing on its shore, letting its waves lap at my feet--i'm in awe of it. and on nights like tonight, when i stand back in the dark and watch it--i'm terrified. then i realized that it has little to do with the darkness or daylight. i'm always terrified of it.

i love it. and i'm terrified of it. it's a constant state of joy and simultaneous panic.

maybe that's what it's like for me concerning everything i love. love and terror. one preceding the other whenever i think about it too much. the fear of its depth. the unknown. the predators hiding right below me. the sheer force. the risk of being pulled under. dragged out. carried away. capsized and rolled. bottomless and unfathomable. warm and then frigid. calm and suddenly raging.

and i love it. so does perfect love cast out fear? or does it just love in spite of it. do i wade into breaking waves, sight unseen and hope for the best? how do i cast out fear when all i know how to do is be prepared for possible tragedy?

"i swam, the sea was boundless, i saw no shore.
tanit was merciless, my prayers were answered.
o you who drown in love, remember me."