For Pipoca, for my sisters, for you:
I think the problem with this notion that “there are plenty more fish in the sea” is exactly that: We don’t want another flounder. Lord knows we’ve caught our share. What we’re searching for is a motherfucking Narwhal, and frankly, one just does not find a Narwhal by hanging around Ogygia. We’ll keep pulling in our lines expecting something elusive and magical, only to find another bottom-feeder who was fun to reel in, maybe got our adrenaline going a little, but is actually rather two-dimensional. And if we don’t quickly decide to swim off the island, Calypso hands us another glass of sweet wine and seduces us into gaslighting our own intuition. Again.
If you’re the type that seeks a rare species—to the extent that some might (wrongly) suggest you are too picky and asking for too much—then you’ve gotta get away from the comfort of the shallows where it’s warm and there are plenty of fish. Listen to the voice that’s been screaming at you for years. Hear it now? That Calypso is a goddamned phony and sings out of key, it says, but we’ve been too drunk on the nymph’s cheap wine to notice.
Let us be not like the settling souls who recycle Twain’s line about throwing off bowlines in search of dreams and discovery but never actually do it. Let us be sober now. See us pulling out our foulies and following the current that pulls us into the unknown. It is colder and the waters are rough, but this is the kind of quest we were made for.