I think, too often, we put on a string quartet, and collapse under our own weight. There is a comfort to pitying one’s decisions and consequences, rather than sending out the lifeboats. Too often, we accept our own mediocrity. Our iceberg, which we are well aware of, looms. It lingers. The character flaw. The piece of us, irredeemable. And the captain steers. Oh, does she steer! Full steam, clear conscious, we lean into ourselves. The Titanic, is not whole without the iceberg. We succumb. We are the Greek tragedy we read in high school.

On the day of our birth, we receive five materials. The ring, the envelope, the wax, the paper, the pen. Carefully, masterfully, delicately, we write. We write so well. We write in love, and in fear. Our career, our children, our pinnacles, our hell. It all flows. Free, like the river. In slides the paper, into its envelope sheath. A fit that was always known to be perfect. The flames, the flames of our narrow minds, our crushing inability, the flames that build cages, touch wax. Sensually, licking. A drip, two drips, and a stamp. Sealed.

Titanic and the iceberg. The greatest love story of modern time.

A metaphor! Ill-fated love.