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I am love’s fool.

Sweet, miserable, love. It’s bipolar, taking you from the heights of ecstasy to the depths of despair, at least if you’re doing it right. And I, I have climbed that peak and plunged to those lows, a searcher and a vagabond. I have heard the sirens’ sing in my heart, and have thrown myself into the waves, to be flailed upon the rocks. But which is love, the swell, the rocks, or the siren’s call?

Battered, bloody, bruised and broken, I awake on some pebble strewn strand, crippled and scarred, but still I hear the song, it rings in my head like a promise, seducing, calling, laying claim to my heart, lingering in the shadows, whispering my name.

and when my wounds have healed, call me Ishmael, I will again sign on for the next voyage, to seek that elusive prize, love.

Sweet, miserable, love.