by Kleitia Vaso

Borges was right about metaphors: poets return to the same ones and the most clichéd express the most profound truths. Indeed, as one grows older, one starts to live out and truly understand the clichés rejected in the affected coolness of youth which is nothing more than lack of experience. Life is a war or a stormy ocean or whatever. A solitary man, the lone ship, surrounded by nothing but infinity. Preferably at night, the only light in a sea of darkness. Increased awareness, the apple of knowledge, both nourishing and destructive. The mind is a maze, a master, not a servant. A time to be a lion and a time to be the fox, emphasis on time. “Your love is like a red, red rose,” beautiful and inflaming, but with an expiration date.  At one point, usually really early or rather late, you will feel the pain in your chest which will clarify, once and for all, the accepted-without-questioning but irrational link between the emotions and the heart. Heart-break.

Ask anyone who has ever experienced something true and they will tell you that they naturally thought of the most trite, overused metaphors when pondering their joys and troubles. Usually, troubles. Even the most intelligent, most refined, creative and sensitive soul fell a wounded soldier in the battlefield of love.

by Kleitia Vaso