Dear San Diego,
I was twenty four.
Ruckle Part, Salt Spring Island. Parked my car, walked down across the field to the rock outcroppings and found one with a ledge I could lay down on.
I spent two days looking out at the ocean trying to decide if I should just walk in.
Under the cold stars, the campfires dimmed out, the new fall wind pushing over the stones, rattling the birches. Didn't eat, didn't sleep, half a bottle of water.
It was about a girl. The sort of girl that at that age you see without faults, just perfections. The sort whose being is in every tree, in the stones of every mountain, in every cloud, in every swirl of a stream.
They are everywhere to you because they are gone.
Some claim it the foolishness of youth. I look back on it now and think the same. But that's only because in age I'm jaded.
I could have walked into the ocean on either of those nights and disappeared - perfectly in the arms of the agony of love.
Instead I just sat there, immobilized, vanquished from myself.
Eventually I got up, walked backed to my car, and drove back to the ferry.
I sat in the line up listening to This Mortal Coil wondering where the future went. If there was a future. What it would be if there was.
I would not accomplish anything of note in my life. It would turn out to be a series of disasters. But looking back on those two days by the shore, at least I knew a love powerful enough, even if only felt by me, that drove me to think of oblivion in place of it gone forever.
And yes, it sounds foolish, but maybe, in the breadth of a life, it is better to grip the passions of Romeo than those of Caesar.