This is me cracking my head open and letting my thoughts out as they come. This is a glimpse at how I process myself and my life- My morning meditation written out...
"I'm really afraid that my writer's fire is dying. I assume that every passionate writer experiences this at one point or another, where they're simply not sure if they will ever pick up a pen with that strong desire or hear the symphonic clickings that typing allows-the glorious speed that allows you to get your mental world out so quick.
I long for that deep inspiration that would grapple with me and consume me. I loved submitting to my mind. I love how strong she is and how she would over power me and hush me to her will.Its amazing. A calm would come over me when I allowed her to speak instead of the reservations and societal dogmas that have held me silent and censored.
I wondered if in fact that she was dying. I'm not sure if somewhere in her last will and testament she fostered great allure between myself and someone "hard to miss".A fresh flame but a stale face bore down on me like the male equivalent of her. It ripped me to shreds and it was then that I wondered where she was. Where was my own personal Fire. Where was she, the one who would have so fiercely risen from the stones and lunged at his neck with such powerful conviction to silence his slander against her. As the flesh alone, I just laid there and I took it. I turn my back and took some more. I laid my neck against the block and showed him where to chop. I just took it.
Where is Stella's fire. Where is Stella's groove.There will be highs and lows in life undoubtedly and this I suppose is a low, a large ghostly field for two...Me and My Fire..My Fire and I. She's around eyes ablaze and down cast...hands behind her back in deep contemplation..feet pressing forward,almost militant.Hungry and Silent. Strong,battered but resiliant. She has confidence in the fact that she cannot die. I admire that about her...that she knows she cannot die. Me the passionless flesh, I die.I die without her.
I don't know what she wants me to learn, in this vast field that she evades me in. I'm searching for her cowardly, scared that we're so far apart. I wish I knew for certain that she will come back to stay but I have disregarded her protection in my obstinance and we both have suffered dearly.
Whatever the case, as pure existance feels fleeting without her, I keep knocking stones together-sitting in the grass waiting for her rescue....but she's the type to sneak up from the back or strike me front whilst I antipicate her from the back and bear down on me till I have proven to her that I can be bad all by myself."
-Unapologetically.
"I'm really afraid that my writer's fire is dying. I assume that every passionate writer experiences this at one point or another, where they're simply not sure if they will ever pick up a pen with that strong desire or hear the symphonic clickings that typing allows-the glorious speed that allows you to get your mental world out so quick.
I long for that deep inspiration that would grapple with me and consume me. I loved submitting to my mind. I love how strong she is and how she would over power me and hush me to her will.Its amazing. A calm would come over me when I allowed her to speak instead of the reservations and societal dogmas that have held me silent and censored.
I wondered if in fact that she was dying. I'm not sure if somewhere in her last will and testament she fostered great allure between myself and someone "hard to miss".A fresh flame but a stale face bore down on me like the male equivalent of her. It ripped me to shreds and it was then that I wondered where she was. Where was my own personal Fire. Where was she, the one who would have so fiercely risen from the stones and lunged at his neck with such powerful conviction to silence his slander against her. As the flesh alone, I just laid there and I took it. I turn my back and took some more. I laid my neck against the block and showed him where to chop. I just took it.
Where is Stella's fire. Where is Stella's groove.There will be highs and lows in life undoubtedly and this I suppose is a low, a large ghostly field for two...Me and My Fire..My Fire and I. She's around eyes ablaze and down cast...hands behind her back in deep contemplation..feet pressing forward,almost militant.Hungry and Silent. Strong,battered but resiliant. She has confidence in the fact that she cannot die. I admire that about her...that she knows she cannot die. Me the passionless flesh, I die.I die without her.
I don't know what she wants me to learn, in this vast field that she evades me in. I'm searching for her cowardly, scared that we're so far apart. I wish I knew for certain that she will come back to stay but I have disregarded her protection in my obstinance and we both have suffered dearly.
Whatever the case, as pure existance feels fleeting without her, I keep knocking stones together-sitting in the grass waiting for her rescue....but she's the type to sneak up from the back or strike me front whilst I antipicate her from the back and bear down on me till I have proven to her that I can be bad all by myself."
-Unapologetically.
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