The Mermaid's Betrayal  

          The mermaid had a beautiful life, full of richness and effortless delight. She had a place, she had a home; she had a life.

          But there was something she wanted, and it wasn’t a part of that life. It couldn’t be a part of that life, for it was above the surface, while the very foundation of her life was that it existed below it.  

          In order to get what she wanted- no, what she needed- the mermaid had to break through the surface and get to the other side. It was necessary, the trade of all trades. Barely anything to consider. It was not only the obvious choice, but rather the only one to make.

          I clearly remember the night I first stumbled across The Mermaid’s Homesickness. For months, I had been torturing myself with thoughts of the various lives I could lead after graduation. I was, with equal measure and matched enthusiasm, leaning towards several distinctly differing paths. Some days, I would dream of travelling Europe. Others, I was quite determined to quit school and move anywhere in California. I contemplated driving trucks to see the country, and (though, I’ll admit, very briefly) considered joining the army to see the world. The only strained constant amidst all my planning was this: I was to lead a new and exciting life as a new and exciting person. I was to uproot, reconsider, and get the hell out of here.

          Yes, gone would be the days of coming home to messes I didn’t make and the buzzing dependence of a family unit. I would no longer concern myself with such trivial things as turning in assignments and laboring over applications. These days would be over for good.

          I was to uproot, reconsider, and get the hell out of here. In some ways, I guess that’s still the plan. However, something’s not quite right. The ready-to-go, charged abandon I once had has been diminished. It’s been replaced by something more tender, something far gentler and more nostalgic.  And, as I stare at The Mermaid’s Homesickness at 3:32 in the morning, the rest of the house asleep, it hits me: once I venture into this new life, I’ll forever lose the one I have now.

          The life I have now will pass the moment I depart from it. It won’t be here when I inevitably come back for a visit, longingly and with pride. I’ll come back for comfort, and it won’t be here. I’ll come back to say, “Look! Look at all I’ve done! Everything is so much better now.” But to whom will I boast? I will boast to a concept, a thing that once existed and never will again.

          Long before I’m dead, I will lose this life.  It’s passing now. And I don’t know what frightens me more: that I’m not going to try to save it, or that I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

          The mermaid and I are not the same. I am aware- she was not. She didn’t understand the ramifications of her decisions; I do. She didn’t get that you can’t reclaim what you forfeit in trivial pursuit; I do. I know better, and yet I push on. The mermaid was ignorant and filled with hope. I am knowledgeable and filled with pride.

          As the mermaid stares into the space she once knew as home, she hardly feels the physical pain. She is far too engulfed in the throbbing waves of self-betrayal to spend much time focused on any one particular thing. She has betrayed herself by abandoning herself, by forgetting herself amidst her pursuits. She has caused irreversible damage, and she can’t go back.

          She didn’t know any better.




Wang, Lijia. The Mermaid's Homesickness. 2013. Oil Canvas. DeviantArt, Online.