Oasis, Oasis.

Maybe it’s my age, but I’ve always found myself attracted to adrenaline, hooked like a fish on a string. But likewise to the latter, the bait was not as I expected – it was fabricated and fake, and it left me with a bad taste. Still, it may be a strange piece in man that is attracted to danger, the risk even without the reward. It’s the boiling blood, the rapid heart beat and the eager tremor within that makes an unsure thing so enticing.

I was like this in love – or infatuation; they all seem to be the same after awhile. I yearned for the startling eyes that would make my heart skip a beat, or a beauty that would cause my head to spin. What about what was within? That’s debatable, as a fickle woman that requirement will change every minute. But excitement – that was non-negotiable, and like a storm chaser I doggedly pursued the tempest.


Heartbreak gets redundant after awhile. That, I must say, is not an adventure. It’s more of a punishment, a stinging slap on the wrist, and a rude shaking out of a wonderful dream I would have rather continued on with. Again and again, I find myself crying the same exhausted tears, made of lessons I had learned so many times, over and over. I tell myself ‘never again’, and yet my heart skips, my head spins, and in seconds I’m on the same track.

The beauty of a storm that seduces man to chase her is her danger – just as I would chase an aloof man. Thunder and lightening warn of consequences, but all I feel is a soothing rumble, all I see is a fantastic show. As the waves rapidly lap at the sand on the beach, and the sky turns a smokey grey, I feel… excitement. I brace myself. I know the wind will sweep me off my feet.


As time passes, I grow so weary. The tears don’t come any more, my heart doesn’t skip any beats, and I grow distant and disinterested in all of the passing storms. Instead, I feel dried up, as if I have lost all the tears my eyes have to give. I feel empty, a gourd drained in a desert. Romance has left me as reality has held my hand, and I wander around in a drought with my head low and my throat parched.

What will become of such a sad girl? I would hope that being alone would help me to find love in the flowers after the rain, but they only remind me that they need a good shower to flourish, but will be drowned by a storm. The roses, the lilacs and the marigolds remind me that I still have a heart, but when they wither in the stifling sun I remember that it’s not the least bit invulnerable to the heat.

The prints I leave in the sand aren’t witnessed, as the wind soon fills them in with more deep gold dust, and after awhile I forget how I ended up here all alone. A rumble of thunder reminds me that where there is rain, there is water, and I turn my head towards the horizon to witness the grey clouds forming.

I can fall again, and again, and again. It is what my heart begs for. But surely the calloused skin would be rough in the fingers of a lover, and he would be repulsed by the scarred thing I had become. He with his sophisticated tastes prefers silk over frayed wool.

Dejectedly, I turn away, but as I look over to the east I see sparkling palms and blue water. A mirage from the heat, I assume, as nothing so beautiful would make itself known in my presence. The surface of the water has the most soothing of ripples; not a single wave. The green of the palm tree leaves remind me of the buds of flowers before they bloom.

How foolish I would be to fall for this, the mirage of an oasis. Imagine those words, coming from a girl who always chases storms! But the calmness and the quiet are the complete opposite of a hurricane, where instead of a hammering heartbeat I feel a drowsy, sedated calm.

If I do need water, and I have these two options, I suppose it would appear to be a clear choice. Still, let’s not forget that old habits are hard to break, and my heart did jump when I heard the thunder.

But the tiny, feeble spark in my heart that I cradle away from the slightest breeze still speaks to me sometimes. She says there is room for love in this cramped space, but it must be gentle enough to not sink the feeble arc that holds it.

With choices given, I choose the calm, the warm and welcoming and soft. Were it a mirage, I would be disappointed, but I’ve faced so much pain before it would only be a tiny knick in a line of deeper scars.

Yes, I do dream of a kind hand, soft eyes and sweet whispers, words that can be heard even through the smoldering heat waves of a drought. In a fantasy world that I bashfully hide away, I believe that after all of my travels, I’ll find my oasis that is not a mirage.

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