sabado

I awoke this morning after being made love to sweetly, all night long by about 13 mosquitoes. They left me a note in the morning about how much they enjoyed me, and thanked me for feeding their families. One of the more considerate ones asked me to where the little grey number again, as it leaves my back meat exposed. I thought that was nice of him. I hope he comes tonight, I’m going to write my number in blood on my back. Hopefully that doesn’t make me look too desperate.

It occurred to me on Saturday that I am in love with the beach a little. It makes sense, I suppose. I am a romantic person, and feel the need to fall in love a lot. The problem is, when I put my faith in men, my need for love almost never satisfied, and I am left thoroughly disappointed. The beach never leaves me longing for more. The uniform disquiet of the Mediterranean waves reminds me of my own mind. The rocky warm sand that is at times unfit to tread upon is remnant of my own heart. Sitting on the shore, inhaling and exhaling in precarious harmony with the ebb and flow of the blue green tide is purity to me. I feel at times I need the ocean, like a lover needs the touch of a hand, a kiss of the mouth. I need the water to wash over me, simultaneous baptism and consummation. I need the ocean to envelop me, as both paramour and womb, both drowning and replenishing a body that so easily could be swept away or torn to bits at the whim of its captor.

Love.

There is an ephemeral quickening that one gets upon that first crashing wave, that first sound that makes you heed your immense counterpart that deluges all senses humanity has chronicled. Indeed. The ocean is a lot like love. That quickening that turns to an all consuming force that drags you in and pulls you under, leaves you wet, sometimes irritated, spits you back out on the shore, enervated, sun-dried. Your heavy breathing and bare-flesh a dead giveaway for you present condition. You turn and walk up the sand, shaking off the remnants, rubbing your eyes as so they don’t burn anymore, and you sit and stare at it. The waves crash again, louder this time, and you wonder why anyone would be so crazy as to want to feel this feeling. The waves calm, and pull back, exposing the brazen, moistened sand. You take a breath. And you cannot wait to do it again. And you will. You pledge to dive in every opportunity afforded to you. Even if it drowns you.