I haven’t been able to write properly in days and this output now is really very messy. Especially knowing that people read these words and apply a certain amount of attention to them. I mean, there’s a power there that I don’t really understand until it’s being reflected onward, in the form of a flagging sentiment that roars. When someone knocks softly and says, “Oh hey, I love your mind and art”, a shadow forms quickly there in the gut. You suddenly feel larger, and you suddenly feel more responsible. And there’s both a lot of light and gloom and heat that surfaces. You are food being forked over and swallowed. You provide the delicious aftermath. You provide a lively warmth that sings.
I’ve been censoring myself in terms of sharing what’s specific to my daily life though. I pass off the stuff that hurts and the stuff that slices, but only that which translates towards the sensual. It is because this is all I lack, and in bed I crave the saucy dynamic of a ship birthed only by two that love and know love. There is also that inability to write what is real, because it is oh so complicated. In an afternoon of nothing, there is so much to draw from, that everything overstimulates the senses, and I spend hours thinking about the way light trails across a floorboard, or the songs the Hudson River calls forth.
The truth though is this: There are stories hiding in stories, and you are a part of my story, and I am a part of yours. We are all a part of something greater, and the details are what make it interesting. And this is why, I can’t just erase and pretend that I live in a box anymore. That isn’t the material that I’ve got matched with my soul, no. Instead, I’m all tangled up in a pot of gold. And yeah, you’re there somewhere, exchanging whispers with me or something.