The Wall

I have said it before, sang it out in slow lyrics and shouted it in angry prose, and so shall I say it again. Romance is a wall on which one can sit or from which one can fall. I have never said more than that, never contemplated how two people could possibly build a structure steady, yet tall. But now is the time, I believe, to regard that creation.

I have found the answer, I think, or more accurately, NOT found it. The only way to build that wall is to lay it brick by brick, the tempo set only as fast as those two people can haul. For only two can build it. Otherwise, the wall will not hold, and they will fall, two eggs against the dirt, and neither of them shall ever be whole again.

I seem so sure of myself, do I not? But I say I have not found the answer, so let me explain. I'd started my brick laying long ago, setting one stone upon another, lovingly and liberally applying to them a mortar of my own design. Sometimes I walked away, let the weather have at what I'd done, but always I returned, drawn by something I still cannot name. And this time, he started helping me, starting at the other end.

We were well on our way to a proper altar of romance. Sure, the going was slow, a largo beat a minute, but all good things take time. But someone saw our endeavors and thought to help, to speed up our rhythm of labor.

A ton of bricks, that person layed, all at once, on our little wall. The mortar had no time to set and the stones beneath no time to adjust to the additional weight. And now I fear all our work, all our careful hefting and measuring and waiting, was for nothing, our wall broken beneath the pressure of that third person's good intentions.

Well... Isn't it?

On the Potential of Godhood

We are in charge of our destiny. Not what it is, but how and if we reach it. And I believe that destiny to be godhood. That's right - godhood. We all have the potential to create universes and populate them. Each and every one of us has the possibility of supreme creation within us.

But how to access it? Or, more poignantly, is it wise or even ethical to do so? Do we, lowly things that we are, deserve to have such power at our command? I should say so! Because only with utter benevolence and exaltion will such power come. Yes, we deserve our godhood, to be the best we can be.

Methodology is shaky, however. It is all much easier said and ruminated on than actualized. But I doubt it is impossible. It shall just take a bit of work. And I believe that work to include stepping into one's self completely. Or perhaps that is the work itself.

Athama

Her name is Athama. She tells the truth in sweeping strokes, painting the tapestry of reality. There is no one - only many.

Her grey-black eyes regard the world in a cold haze of heat. She used to be the victim and she remembers every injustice that wracked her slender frame. But now... But now she knows that there is no such thing as fate, that destiny is malleable, and she holds the hammer. She smiles and the world freezes.

She's sharp, with her long blue-black mane, a study of blades in gray scale. Her entire existence is stark and she cuts away all the threads that might tie her to color. After all, she got tired of whisking the cobwebs off of things and emotion bites like a spider.

That poor Athama - she tells the truth, makes reality. But she never learned that logic cannot rule. If we all are our God, then living without emotion deprives us of our worship.

Teaser

Hi, my name is SD. You may call me 'sexy'. With a toss of my hair and a twitch of my hips, I'll have you entranced. Keep your eyes on mine, lest you get lost.

I wink and smile, trace my tongue slowly across the sharps of my teeth. Yes, that is an invitation. Come talk to me, exchange your light with my glowing, radiant darkness. (Yes, taste the sour-sweet burn of blatant desire!)

Haven't you wanted this since you first scented my perfume, your back to the door? Didn't you sense the raw sensual power as I brushed down the staircase into your life? Don't lie. I know you did. I saw it in your eyes as you beheld me.

Enough of this talk. I pull you to me with a small sound, your lips to mine. Never mind taking anything slowly- this was meant to be.

Teeth in neck, fists in hair, tongues in dark, secret places. Then I push you away, still smiling in my confidence. I find my feet and sway towards the door, sultry over my shoulder.

Make no mistake- I want more. But the tease forces the torture sweeter. (And there is nothing wrong with sweeter.)

Flat Stomach

The resentment strikes me like a fist to my newly flattened stomach. I knew they'd be like this, but I rather hoped that they'd find the strength in their soul to be happy for me. I guess no one is that resilient.

Though, mark my words in this notebook in permanent ink, I shall be.

Snickers

There's a chocolate bar sitting in front of me. Oooh, the possibilities. I could savor it, tooth-width by tooth-width. Or, I could take large bites and roll it about my tongue, feeling the texture in the taste. I could lick it like a lollipop, layer by heterogeneous layer. So many ways to eat that chocolate bar... (But I'll just sit and stare.)

Reclaiming Nature

I am an extrovert trapped in an introvert's mindset. I should be the bold, charismatic one, but I have been ensorcelled into the silent ghost of the times.

No more! I shall reclaim my nature, twine the vines of truth about my waist, and wear a laurel crown. (Not much else, for I want to be free.)

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

I am alert, aware, a white-marble queen at the head of the social chess board, millions of teams spread across the blocks. It's always my turn, my move, and with skillful feints and invitations, I can rule the scene.

I am flushed flesh, pounding the streets in an attempt to find a door in or a door out. I am a pawn at this juncture, shifted, pushed about, strings plucked by the shaking fingers of circumstance. It is never my turn, and I cannot make it so if I am always running from that possibility.

I am packed muscle, a lithe tigress with a smile stamped across my claws, the kitten that'll just as gladly purr as hiss. I can control myself, slink and prowl and stretch, and by doing so, allow others to hitch along for the ride.

I was the runner. I am the chess queen. I shall be the tigress. Let's play now- yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Dangerous Turf

This is dangerous turf, the edge of the precipice. Walking that razor, I can fall either way. I must be perfectly balanced. (But there is no perfect - only close facsimiles.)

I should really leave well enough alone. Heave myself off this ledge onto solid ground and run. Why play where you know you'll get hurt? Oh, yeah.... Because if I don't, someone else MIGHT get hurt. Why do I care, again?

All I have is cheap justification, like a rich girl deciding to become a whore because she wants to buy a pack of gum. (I think there must be multiple oral fixations if THAT's her reasoning.) But I'm really no better. I say I'm helping him to 'better my social circle as a whole', but perhaps my reasons are wholly selfish. I am well aware that his are.

Woah, dizzying! I shouldn't spin in circles when the dirt is crumbling from beneath me. Um, duh.... Common sense is a good thing to pay attention to. And it's screaming at me, lecturing like a dowdy matron at a party in a dorm room. "Damn it, it's dangerous! You're going to fall and break yourself on the barbed wire you spilled at the bottom!"

But, perfect balance....

Oh, Please.

Because it's truly not obvious what thoughts are a-churnin' through your head.

I'm not dumb, you know.

But, hey.

Maybe you are.