You have to write for yourself if you want to cut through the noise. This world is full to the teeth with attempts to extract you from your own essence. Your own wild scent. What you want is to be alone in a field with the soft rain on your skin, listening. Keep your eyes trained upon the blue-gray blur in the distance, the washed out curve of nature into sky.
I have held so many a hand which meant me harm. I laughed into the pain and breathed life into pleasures I had no right to claim. You cling to bodies which are no match for your prismatic mind. In the dead heat of night, I moan into your palm, psalms of otherworldly desire, naked, vulnerable, soul bared before the strength of your need. There are ways to be free and ways to be chained to ill-fated alliances. I struggle with and against both.
What I know is there is so much hidden from us. What I believe is the trap had been set since before we could understand those who encircled us like vultures, hunted us. What I sense in the marrow of my being is that we are handed, from the very beginning, too many locks and not enough keys. Treasure chests sunk to the bottom of the indifferent sea. Heavy with jewels never once seen.
When he drags his fingers along my jaw, the sensation runs the entire length of my body. A single touch unlocks my most ancient and timeless of secrets. His hand on my throat. I become the instrument, ache to offer him the music of my devotion. I remain motionless as I learn to weather the storms which are taking over the fields inside me. I always knew they were there. How I longed to return to their heavenly waves.
What I know is there is far too much I do not know about the ways I am capable of expanding, of being reborn, of becoming new. I write to keep close to something which turns in my blood. Which trembles and shakes its own walls until it cannot be denied. To write is to surrender to yourself inside of something much bigger than you can possibly understand all at once. If you find it hard to do, perhaps this is why.