Recently, I found myself wandering back to a harbor I once left behind.
For the first few weeks, the waters were calm. We drifted carefully, neither of us raising full sails, content to let the tide carry us at its own pace. There was comfort in the familiarity, the same shoreline, the same quiet currents that once felt like home. But I am no longer the traveler who first arrived here. Time has taught me how to read the weather. I can see the storm clouds gathering long before the rain falls. And it made me wonder,
Does love follow a law of diminishing returns?
The first arrival feels like discovering a new continent. The second feels more like revisiting a map whose ending is already known. The warmth is still there, but so is the memory of every shipwreck hidden beneath the surface. So now I am standing at the edge of the deck wondering,
Do I turn the ship around and leave behind the comfort of this harbor,
or do I keep sailing toward a horizon I suspect will never appear?
On another thought...
Perhaps every harbor serves a purpose.
Not for treasure or conquest, but simply for shelter on difficult nights. Yet I cannot help but wonder whether a refuge can remain just that. When comfort settles in and the walls begin to feel familiar,
Can I truly keep my heart from building a home there again?
Because what I fear is not the journey itself. What I fear is becoming an anchor someone borrows during rough seas, only to be cut loose once the waters grow calm. If there is such a thing as a law of diminishing love, perhaps it is not that love grows smaller with time. Perhaps it is that every return yields less certainty and costs a little more courage than the last. Here I am telling my little self inside my tiny heart,
Remember how it ended,
remember if that was the only amount of self-love I have for myself this time too.
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