I think about love all the time.
Perhaps, I was born with a forlorn heart. As a child, I can remember hugging myself tightly at bedtime, longing for something I had never experienced. Intimately, the breath of another is an almost primal satiation and I have observed nuanced reactions from the affection I give, certainly unaware of my own strength. Bodies recoil from my touch, as if reacting to a tangible blessing. Or a curse. My cordial moments of acquaintance contact are mistaken, accused, and refused out of fear and assumption of distorted intention. It is a reflection of my previous life. My mother used to tell me that I "had been here before". Now after HER life, I am living within reaction.
A POST-life, sometimes not my own.
I am other wordly. Life on this soil is an infinite discovery--of how to love myself and to truly receive my spirit.
Reverie
The moment where I am able to become the recipient of my own divine love--respectful of its purity--will be the climax. I predict this as my glorified and ultimate quest. Like Lancelot, I have traveled long, far, and broken paths in search of my dragon. While continuing to ignore the only dangerous and beautiful fire that actually threatened me-- the one searing me from the inside. I was determined to survive on other soil. To experience a grand victory and have answers unlocked--like dramatically piercing the dragon with Lancelot's Excalibur. And since, I feel like a hero, I needed to replicate the story of one. The realization lied in the acceptance of myself as the author of this story. My characters laughed and indulged loudly and openly, but loved with an enormous fear. Fortunately, this was not destined to exist as a narrative rerun, it was an original reality. I was in charge of the ending, therefore I could create the love story.
