Valenwyrms Day MMXXI

ISSUE #140

Whales sing. The theory is songs are their way to find love—the ocean is numbing in its lonely sprawl. Even when swimming miles apart, they'll change their tune to match the others. They follow some intrinsic pattern. Nobody knows why.

Like the urge to sing, love appears unbidden. An ingrained and involuntary system, it argues for the existence of soul. We feel it much more than we think it.

Cultural difference renders it the same. Strip it of romance, courtship, or contract—still we feel its heat in every room. It's between parent and child; partner and friend; animals, trees, and city blocks. Lust and desire make objects out of subjects, but love is a gift that fuses full lives.

Maybe relationships only end in one of two ways. So do waterslides. So do meals. So do golden afternoons. All things fade, but few return. When love does vanish, the instinct stays. A spider with a broken web will find the urge to weave.

It thrives in music because it's rare to witness in full without love of our own. We see it all around, yes, but songs open windows to its naked beauty. Love songs are rivers for those desperate for water.

I have never seen a whale myself, but I've walked through many a spider's web. I know the terror of building anew. While I can't deny material realities of love—how communication and class and choice take their toll—I woudn't dare say it's folly to sing for. I think it's beautiful to try.