Fear is a mirror.
A look in the glass of reflection.
If you doubt your vision clearer,
you’ll feel its palpable preservation.
Immense scare, frantic anxious;
the loom thickens by thought, by actions.
Belief with so much power
to believe alternative directions.
What if all that fear is,
is equivalent to love?
Lurking as the weight of caress
- how her vastness is so tough.
Bear with me a moment,
where belief believes in luck.
Know defeat and all his opponents,
and fear, won’t leave you stuck.
Inspiration
My lover and I live in Florida. Hot and humid, we decided to take the jetski out last week as we do maybe once a month. I am fearful of being on such a small vehicle in the middle of deep waters. But the ride can be fun too once I get over the scare. I still, however, prefer to stay on land. I wouldn’t complain on a big boat, perhaps.
Sharks, gators, and god knows what give me the right to be fearful. But it’s important for me and my partner to try each other’s hobbies. That is why I get on the jetski in the first place. I know I’m eventually safe, putting a lot of trust into my partner since he’s driving. Whether that trust is a choice considering the circumstances, it’s better for me to flip the fear.
But then I realized: I’m scared because I care, because I love. Being an anxious woman makes me a loving woman. This is not to disregard fear or anxiety in other circumstances, as they play an important role in our biology and sickness.
We get to the beach off an island not too far from the mainland. We eat our lunch and spend quality time with each other. There’s even a little sand bar we walked out on and saw some manatees mating. The frequency definitely dwelled. My partner decided to whip the jetski a little while I lay on the navy blue checkered blanket. I pulled out my sea journal.
I’ve posted the journal before on this blog. But to my upset, the journal had been wet from the sea. Sort of in a diagonal, half-dry, half-sunk. I don’t know how, but the ink of poetry scattered and was no longer readable. At first I was hurt, but then I recalled that I’ve photographed the poetry. So I wrote a poem about the letters that were washed away.
The sea loved my poem so much she sunk the words herself. And now I know why the sea is beautiful. Her depth to glisten is poetry itself.
