I sit again with myself on a winter's night. Cool air pooling around my ankles. So many books surround me. Someone else's dreams coming to fruition on my shelves. The evidence is here staring me in the face.
I yearn for that feeling after an orgasm, more than the orgasm itself. When hot fire creeps up through your toes and finishes just there...in that tender spot at the nape of your neck...rapture. I want to feel the after. A high not reached by drowning in chocolate or sipping whiskey. Tea? Hell, no! Too sobering and serene. It is not serenity I want now, in this moment.
Do you ever feel like your timing is off? You show up to the show, but everyone has left the building? You missed it. The event of a lifetime! "Impossible to describe," they say. The way your life could have gone. For one night ONLY. Missed.
And now the oddest things make you cry. Reading to your children. The words to the story choking you, so that you have to pause and take a breath. Because they describe a life you'd like to have.
I find myself sinking. The lure of quick sand sucking me down to that place of darkness. Always temporary. Yet, while here it seeps into my soul, and betrays my light. You, there! Self-Absorption! I see YOU gloating...
*****Painting titled: "Last Ride" by Chuck Gumpert.