On one page of the dictionary we have the word DESULTORY, something done without enthusiasm. On the other page we have the word DESIROUS. And the last word is PROMENADE. There is a beach in that word. There is also a slow walk. Something done for pleasure. But that’s not us. If our hearts desired something, we would run. As fast as we could. Like little turtles that have just hatched. We would run into the sea.
Somewhere there is a beach where a bunch of little turtles have just broken free from their eggs. Before even laying eyes on the sea, those little turtles know that their place isn’t under the sand. They wanted the sea, before they knew of its existence. And as soon as they see it, the little turtles run. Towards the sea. Into their heart.
In that beach there is a little girl, that has never desired anything in her life. That stroll along the beach wasn’t her idea. And even though we could say that that is the reason why she walks without enthusiasm, it wouldn’t be true. There are things that put a smile on her face. There are things she wants to do. But none of them are something she really desires. She wants a sea that would make her come out of the sand where she is buried. She wants to run towards that sea, as if her life depended on it. She doesn’t want to walk along the beach anymore. Because even if the desire of those turtles only lasts a moment, and it fades away as soon as they touch the water. Even if the sea never makes those turtles feel anything again, and it just becomes a place where they swim. Slowly. For the rest of their lives. At least those turtles can say that they started their life running, desiring something, with all their hearts.
Once, I had that too. It wasn’t a dream. I don’t like that word, because Sleep’s closest blood relative is Death. I had something, and it felt like my life depended on it. It made me feel alive, it gave me something to believe, a reason to run. I’ve heard many turtles call it the Sea. And that is the word I choose to use. I put a little bit of that feeling inside a bottle, and someday I will open it. Someday my bottle will hatch, like a turtle egg. And I will run. Towards the Sea, one last time.
Run. Run. Run. You won’t be living your life otherwise. You need passion. You need a sea. I grew up by that lullaby. My mother took me to the beach, to watch eggs hatch and turtles run into the sea. On my birthday she gave me a pair of running shoes, and I have been running ever since. Trying to lose myself, trying to become part of something greater than myself. The sea. Life. I keep running, like I have been told to do. I keep smiling, hoping to make my little voice disappear, like a little turtle under a broken wave. That little voice that keeps begging me to stop. To breathe. And forget the sea.
My sea? The thing I knew existed, before I even knew who I was? Music. I sang my first words. I grew up inside my music, like a turtle inside the sea. I don’t remember the sand. If you stranded me, I wouldn’t recognize myself anymore. I don’t remember running the first time. I don’t remember being lost. I don’t remember having been found, but that feels more natural to me. I believe that the sea found me, not the other way around. And I pray every day, that it doesn’t disappear. That I don’t end up on the sand again. Because I wouldn’t know how to run. And I need to believe that music is irreplaceable, even if I am not.
I had only seen the inside of my eggshell. But I knew that there was something out there. Something calling me, every night in my dreams. When the egg broke, there was sand beneath my feet. But it was quiet, too quiet for my beating heart. I knew that it would never be my home. And I kept looking. In the distance, there were waves. The color of my eggshell, broken just like it. I heard the sea. And I followed my heart. I ran. Unmindful of the sand. Of the harmony I broke with every beat of my heart. And I refuse to feel guilty. For choosing my home.
Every time I run, my mind clears. There is nothing left, not even myself. Dreams choose that moment of weakness to haunt me. To tell me where to run to, what to pursue. They don’t feel like mine, but they are the only thing I have. I am not a turtle. I don’t want the sea. I don’t want to be at these dreams’ mercy anymore. But I don’t know how to stop running. I don’t know how to shed this fear that has me running towards the sea. The one that tells me that if it weren’t for these dreams, I wouldn’t have anything at all.
My heart’s desire? I try my best to ignore that voice I buried a long time ago. Because I have seen what is left, all those broken eggshells, that didn’t even merit a sea turtle’s backward glance. She ran towards the sea, her heart full of desire, leaving no room for anyone else. We were too young to be each other’s home, but I thought that the friendship we built meant something to her too. I was wrong. She left as soon as she broke free. Discarding all the broken pieces of who she had once been. To me.
I have heard that the sea is a home, that the sea is a dream, but it makes no difference to me. I don’t want to pursue something that will only leave me broken and disfigured, like and egg that has just hatched. Most turtles don’t even make it into the sea. There is no point in running. All that passion, all that need, just to have that crushing disappointment be my reward? I would rather stay right here on the sand. And watch the waves crashing in the distance.
You see enthusiasm, you see passion in those turtles that run towards the sea. You talk about pursuing dreams and finally reaching some place you can call home. But when I look at those turtles, I only see fear. Of monsters that don’t hide in the dark. Of being stranded, in something solid, in something real and undeniable, that cannot be mistaken for a dream, unlike the sea. My life may not have a purpose, it may not be something I am passionate about, but at least I am not afraid. At least I don’t run with the first dream I can grasp, trying to feel something, that simply isn’t there.