|the land of self actualization
||[Aug. 19th, 2012|01:25 am]
d is for dark.
the dead sea, or at least, the greater canyon-valley of the dead sea, is sometimes known as the vale of tears.
this is because the water in the dead sea is extremely salty (like tears) and extremely bitter (like what causes tears). and ultimately if you get the dead seawater in your eyes, you will cry.
in the north of Israel, you will find the spring of life and fountain of joy and wellspring of many good things.
in the east, the sun rises on the vale of tears, on a dead, dying sea.
500 days is not a love movie. it is a movie about love.
it is a movie about misguided love, about how cute and wonderful and happy two people can be together without being - at all - compatible or correct or right for each other. these things happen; mystical cosmic errors that allow a peek into happiness at the wrong window. sometimes you're just knocking on the wrong door, barking up the wrong tree. it's a movie about a boy who lives in his own world and projects all his desire onto this one girl who doesn't deserve it - not the pedestal he puts her on, nor the punishment of having to deal with all his hopes and dreams. it's a movie about a girl who realises this and is sick of it, is a hypocrite, has no idea what she wants, and in the act committed is judge jury executioner and not even, but also murderer, perpetrator and accomplice.
500 days is not a love story; it's a story about love.
the dead sea is dying.
it is a vast, empty bowl, and the bowl is less than half-empty now. the water is retreating, falling back against the onslaught of tourists and thieves and prospectors, leaving behind fortifications of sharp, jagged, slippery stone. even against the sun it is helplessly, and turns into a roiling, boiling mess-mass of oil and water and salt and minerals and bitterness.
perhaps this is what happens when the tears dry, leaving behind only a lingering saltiness, an unparalleled bitterness, and a rocky, craggy exterior.
under the sun, if you are sharp-eyed, and bright-eyed, and warm of heart, you can find a salt-stone, a giant crystal of rock salt to take home as a souvenir. but unless your wit is as sharp as the rock you'll need to improvise as a chisel, unless your will is as strong as the force you need to smash the salt into crystals, and unless your heart is as unyielding and sturdy as the patience you need to smash the salt-stone open, you won't be leaving with anything.
i brought back three crystals. it seemed appropriate. i intended to give one away for the salt and the bitterness and the sweat and pain i endured.
it makes no sense.
sometimes you just got to give it up.
maybe this is what's left after the tears dry. not the refreshing cool and lightness of being in a freshwater lake; but dark, heated sobriety and the seriousness of brine.
you made a choice between love and laughter, love and infatuation, love and...me.
i release you.
maybe now, i can finally start to release myself from the ties i bound with.
and fuck off.