They compare love to something destructive and depression to something healing. In what twisted universe is this supposed to be the way of things?
Love is not a fire. It does not burn and burn and burn. It does not turn things to ash. Yes, it warms the skin to red and pink hues. Yes, love can be raging, but only in the most comforting ways.
Depression is not the ocean. It is not a necessity like that of water, like love is. It does not soothe like love does. Yes, it has depths that even the most knowledgeable don't know the extents of. Yes, it is dark and thrashing and it drowns.
Why is what we try so hard to get rid of, a life line?
Why is this said to be the way of things?
YOU ARE READING
The Swallows and the Sunsets
PoetryI tend to find meanings in things not intended to have one.
