I need to start writing again. I'm suffocating in my own thoughts. There is so much happening around me and the only way to make sense of it all is to write. My words are like my blood, my life force. When the words are not flowing, my body feels dead and dry. I am raw today. I am open. I feel my wounds on the surface of my body. I feel the pull to drop down into the depths again and see what lurks beneath the surface.
I am uninspired by the outside world lately. I care more about what is inside of me than what is out there. I know there is goodness, richness, meaning, and treasures inside of me. I know I am supposed to carve and cultivate them. I need to bear the fruit of my experience. I want to be reminded of what it feels like to be deeply loved, desired, held, connected, inspired, aroused, engaged, infatuated. I want it to come from within. I want to tap into something eternal and immortal. I want to lift the veil. I want to make love to my own soul -- is that possible?
The mundane is so mundane. I am surrounded by drama. Everyone falls in love with me so easily. What the fuck? Why do I elicit that in people? Is it because I am unavailable? Is it because I am mysterious? Is it because I am aloof and uninterested?
Someone once told me -- another gentleman who was in love with me without reciprocation -- that I am easily lovable. That there is something about me that makes everyone want to be with me. I find that ironic. I find it ironic because I prefer to be alone than to be with others. I prefer the sun and the moon and the water. I prefer my cat and a good book and a cup of tea. I prefer a hot bath or my computer or a deep meditation. I prefer to write about the way it feels to look into your eyes, feel your breath on my neck, feel your hand caress my inner thigh than to actually experience it with you. Is that wrong?
There is a place of suspension, like a rope bridge, where I linger with my desire, waiting for something to come, having left behind an experience of satisfaction, feeling ready for the next episode. And I linger......I pause..... I don't even want to cross the bridge. I don't even want to get 'there.' I only want the possibility of getting there. The possibility of it being better than it was before. The possibility of it being more satisfying than the last. I can smell the earth behind me, the water below me, and see the new adventure in front of me. But still I wait, on the bridge, without any forward movement other than my fantasies....and no one can reach me. I am out of reach. You see me on the bridge, wait for me to cross, but I never do. I just linger. And you want me to move, and I don't. And you wait and I can wait longer because I enjoy being right where I am am. Out of your reach.
I start writing so many things and then I stop. I stop when it becomes arduous and painful. I stop when it starts to pull me under, expose my wounds, make me feel too much of one thing or another. Writing makes me so hungry. Fiercely hungry. Hungry like a wolf or hyena or tiger. It makes me want to go out and devour some one or some thing to fill a deep void. A void better left unexplored or transcended in some way because nothing good ever comes of looking into the vast emptiness of the self and wanting it to be filled with life and love and light that is unattainable. Don't get me wrong, we can all be blissful for a moment or two but the vast emptiness, the enormous unknown, the impenetrable darkness is the reality of the soul. And I mean that in the most uplifting way. Dropping the identity, the personality, the insanity of my humanness leaves me face to face with nothing. No thing. Nada. And what's a girl to do with nothing? Fill it, of course. Fill it with indulgence and romance and sensation and attention and reassurance that there really isn't nothing and that there really is something substantial to this life.