swoosh and swirl
For all philosophical and ethical reasons it’s not right to say this, oh, but wouldn’t it be romantic if it were true? Imagine if people were born into this world with a finite amount of love, and when that love runs out, they die. Surely, if someone else said this, I would tear into them, tell them they’re arrogant, that a five-year-old child, for example, who died in a car accident is not a case of “love running out.” But could you blame me for saying it, now that for the second time in my life something inside me has died? When I was a kid I would look up at the sky, see the brightest star, and imagine it was Neverland from the universe of Peter Pan. I had all kinds of fantasies about how he would sweep me away from this unkind, unjust world, and how we would fly across oceans and forests and mountains, and in the end, I would never grow up. Except, when you dream of never growing up, when you dream of being taken out of this world, you are already grown up anyway. At least, you are...
