Foreign Love

There is a paradoxical manner in which our overall security dwindles as we live longer in our customary environments. Though the flesh and perhaps even the mind slowly become complacent and gradually grow inert, inviting a fallacious interpretation of comfort, our affective faculties begin to develop a protuding edge that is so difficult to define - such that any semblance of a foreign incursion into our lives provides a bizzare hope for a new beginning; a positive chance encounter; a divinely scripted coincidence destined to span across borders and blossom into infinite beauty. And hence, armed with knowledge of our old usual selves which appear to be welcomed by these foreign incursions, we misread our experiences as a premium with which to purchase a stake in the reciprocity of what we dream to be new love. We forego our own benefits and compel a surge in our sacrificial spirit, and even though our surface sentiments may deny it, we are merely investing in the hope that this tiny new crack upon the boulder of our drab existences may usher in a fresh stream of romance and salvation. Why is it then, that we continue to strum our lutes, profoundly alone? Be warned, for even the most spectacular of fire crackers succumbs to nature's demands that it must eventually fizzle out and know the name of ashes. Bow your heads and stay anchored then, you may say? At least the barnacles faithfully accompany your every reflection upon the water, be it murky or clear.