the form of love, or swans and black coffee

Look upon men and things with the inner eye, with its form and desire, never forgetting that the shadow they throw as they pass by, upon hillock or wall, is but the fleeting image of a mightier shadow, which, like the wing of an imperishable swan, floats over every soul that draws near to their soul. Do not believe that thoughts such as these can be mere ornaments, and without influence upon the lives of those who admit them. It is far more important that one’s life should be perceived than that it should be transformed; for no sooner has it been perceived, than it transforms itself of its own accord.

Maurice Maeterlinck

Swans. In theory, as in, in paintings, I think are beautiful. In real life, as in, at the park, I am terrified of.

They’re loud, and make a hjonk hjonk noise that is startling. I read somewhere that they can break a person’s arm with their wings. Imagine getting backhand slapped by a swan’s wing, and being like wow. they are such beautiful creatures. the creature of love.

I don’t like that the Hjonk Hjonk Arm Breaker 3600 is allegedly the symbol for love when there are much better things.

What’s better: the sound of the piano from far away or through a recording, or sitting next to someone playing the piano and hearing their fingers press the keys and their feet tap the pedals?

If it were to be turned into a questionable symbol, my love would not be a swan. I think it would be something like black coffee. An acquired taste.

If you are used to light, agreeable, creamy, sugary, often barista-made coffee, you might not have a taste for what I have to offer. My coffee is dark and opaque, slightly acidic, strong, and often comes in a big can with a seal that’s tough to open. It’s the kind of thing you probably don’t like initially because it doesn’t taste great right away, but at some point you might decide to wean yourself off of the cream and sugar.

I don’t think anyone ever starts off liking just black coffee, but many people create a habit out of drinking black coffee until they develop a palette for the base notes. Then it doesn’t just taste like an ash tray. It tastes smoky and rich, and maybe even a little nutty.

In presentation, it’s just ground up dark sand, but the real kicker is the smell. The smell of coffee grounds is referred to as “the bouquet.” I think that is fitting.

I wish sometimes my love was easy and graceful like the swan looks in pictures and is described in poems. It is not. It is complex and hard to describe unless you know what to look for, which takes time. Which is acquired through time.

In spite of that, I think it is worth it. I don’t mind not being a swan if it means that someone sees past the face value and the on paper and in paintings. If it means someone has gotten past the seal that preserves the coffee and uncovered the richness inside.

I think it is happening, or maybe has happened already. Does the coffee ever know when the seal is broken? Can it sense itself being known? I want to. I think that I am.

At the end of the day, it is what it is. A swan is just a mean bird, and coffee is just a spicy hot water. I am, too, just me, and trying my best to be that.