Since you cannot be my bride, you shall at least be my tree. O laurel, with you my hair will be crowned, with you my lyre, with you my quiver

Ovid (Metamorphoses, Book I, 556-558)

What do we do when we finally encounter the one whom destiny desires for us, the one who stands at the crossroads of our soul, embodying both hope and hesitation? Do we change ourselves for them, reshaping our very essence, or do we flee, driven by fear, until our existence no longer belongs to us? Do we, like Daphne, transform, letting the weight of our anxieties mold us into something distant, unreachable, turning away from the overwhelming force of our feelings? Or do we, like Apollo, pursue relentlessly, even when the object of our desire slips further from our grasp?

The question is not simply about love it is about how we confront the things we truly want, and the fear that often accompanies those desires. Should we chase what we long for, even if it risks changing who we are? Or should we let the shadows of our doubts and insecurities envelop us, turning us into something else, something less than we could be, simply to avoid the pain of rejection or failure? There is a temptation to let the forces of darkness our fears, our wounds, and the burdens of our past consume us. They whisper that it is easier to retreat, to transform into something unrecognizable, rather than face the vulnerability that love demands. But is this truly freedom, or is it merely a surrender to a fate we never chose? Apollo becomes the chaser, embodying the relentless pursuit of desire. the force within us that urges us to follow our passions, no matter the cost.  Should we be Apollo the one who chases the elusive dream or should we, like Daphne, allow the hand of nature to take us away, letting transformation protect us from the things we fear most?

As he gazed at her, he admired her shapeliness, and his desire was kindled as he looked upon her ivory shoulders, her eyes gleaming like stars, and her lips if only they might be kissed.

                                                           Ovid (Metamorphoses, Book I, 490-493)

Perhaps the answer lies not in choosing one over the other, but in recognizing that both are necessary. To chase is to confront our desires, to accept the risk of vulnerability. But to flee, at times, is to protect ourselves, to understand the limits of what we can bear. In the end, life is neither solely a pursuit nor a retreat; it is a delicate balance between the two, shaped by the choices we make in the face of our deepest longings. We grasp at moments, yearning to hold onto the ephemeral glimpses of happiness that once seemed infinite, only to find that time, indifferent and relentless, pulls them farther from our reach. Perhaps the greatest tragedy about love, which we so often believe will complete us, instead leaves us fractured scattered remnants of a self that will never again cohere as it once did. Do we allow our fears to root us in place, or do we, despite the risk, stretch our hand toward the one who stirs our soul?

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known

John Keats (Ode to a Nightingale)