Feeling resistant to write. Feeling more like observing, and letting my sense of smell, touch, and sight bring me present to those things that want to show themselves. Maybe I am the thing that wants to be seen. Maybe I want to show myself, displaying my essence in peacock splendor.
Loving the feel of the breeze, the air on my skin, in my hair; the smell of heat and dirt insinuating themselves through the cool, shade-laced leaves. Wanting love and sex and sensuality, and that joyous feeling of intimacy. So I allow the air to kiss my skin, rouse my senses, and ruffle the imaginings hanging from my lips. Stirring me inside, stroking me outside, whirling around me, and upward into the sky.
I no longer have such a true compass as to what is up or down - sea and sky, earth and water. Where am I in the cosmos? Wanting human connection. And still the air supports me, pressing against my skin; against my being like an old friend, or lover, or child leaning into me. And the air tickles my hair and rustles the leaves. Whispering to all it touches. It’s breathing a kind of sight. Oh to capture the wind! Hold on to its secrets, carrying the wind in our pockets. The trickster wind laughs at such folly. Elusive wind. Chuckling breeze. Terrifying gusts beating story into me.
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