[with apologies to Paulo]
I read in one of Coelho's that everything that falls into the coldness of the River Piedra: bugs, leaves, unsent loveletters -- easily sink and are turned into stones that make up the riverbed.
How I wish this waterfall were like the River Piedra. That I could throw my heart in the rapids so it would stop beating. Stop wondering.
Stop hurting.
I'd plunge straight towards the basin and lie in the calm beneath the torrents. Let the world forget that I ever existed.
That I loved, and ached. Pathetically.
But this is not the River Piedra. And I can only but wish.
That somewhere...between the tiptoeing consciousness of hearts in slumber and the waking of the soul, I'd like to believe there is a graveyard of dreams where dead, lost, and broken loves rest in peace.
