you my love

to me are the stuff dreams are made of

moonshine


stardust 


and a fist full of sky...

I don't know when, how or why this frantic ceaseless wanting began,
But this belongs to you alone. 

Delight in Dialogues.

I might not have many friends, not the breathing, benign sort at any rate. And I don’t mean that in a sad, miserable sort of way: I just cannot accumulate the kind that bore me in a minute, I don’t enjoy the crowds either. I am good with words, but not the spoken kind. The best relationships I’ve had are on paper, and that’s what I do best. I wish I could conduct love affairs like that, affairs that contained within the binds of paper and screen…glorious pages of ink and type.  Stories that unfold the same way but never lose their joy, imageries that take me by the hand and lead me into worlds of passion, terror and delight. These words are worthy and reliable companions – some write back and some I simply delight in writing to, I find pauses in locked eyes, exclamation at the taste of their lips, tongue swirling in a comma, my hands exploring pages after pages, clauses scouring their skin, parenthesis that relish the mysteries of flesh that tear and mend, a dash that stops at parted lips- yet sadly, you see, none of these allow the delight to hold a moment longer when grammar fails you with a period. 

letters

     My dearest you, do you know I have thought of this moment for the longest time. This very thought was planted way back, much before you knew what it means to kiss a girl. The need to simply hold your hand, to touch your skin, to taste you with my tongue…one can’t want something and do nothing.  It was that curious feeling when you miss someone you’ve never met. How would you explain that? How do you explain the corner of my mind that you have occupied for the past 20 odd years? That need within to rip off all logic and make passionate sense to this thought, the idea that your world and mine would ever collide, make contact even… the lure to attempt on a probability to make our worlds meet was an equivalent to sending star ships to space. To see you move, to be around you, within an arm’s reach. Do you know how much all of this means?

      I wouldn’t want to put a name to this emotion, it’s not hurricane like or rain even…its that faint drizzle on a hot day and all one wants to do is lie on the couch wrap my arms around you and sleep or perhaps just ask “may I kiss you now?”

Choke- Chuck Palahniuk

“What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.”

What I feel...

These days I try to tell myself that what I feel is not very important. I’ve read this in several books now: what I feel is important but not the center of everything. Maybe I do see this, but I do not believe in it deeply to act on it.  I would like to believe in it more deeply.

What a relief that would be, I wouldn’t have to think about what I felt all the time, and try to control it, with all its complications and all its consequences. I wouldn’t have to try to feel better all the time. In fact, if I didn’t believe what I felt was so important, I probably wouldn’t even feel so bad, and it wouldn’t be so hard to feel better.  I wouldn’t have to say, oh, I feel so awful, this is like the end for me here, in this dark living room late at night, with the dark street outside under the streetlights, I am so very alone, everyone else in the house asleep, there is no comfort anywhere, just me alone down here, I will never calm myself enough to sleep, never sleep, never be able to go on to the next day, I can’t possibly go on, I can’t live, even through the next minute.

If I believed that what I felt was not the center of everything, then it wouldn’t be, but just one of many things, off to the side, and I would be able to see and pay attention to other things that were equally important, and in this way I would have some relief.

But it is curious how you can see that an idea is absolutely true and correct and yet not believe it deeply enough to act on it. So I still act as though my feelings were the center of everything, and they still cause me to end up alone by the living-room window late at night. What is different, now, is that I have this idea: I have the idea that soon I will no longer believe my feelings are the center of everything. This is a real comfort for me, because if you despair of going on, but at the same time tell yourself that your despair may not be very important, then either you stop despairing or you still despair but at the same time begin to see how your despair, too, might move off to the side, one of many things.

pretty

I leave the pretty women for men with no imagination, find me a man who can caress my wounds and join the dots with my scars.

to lose yourself

Its the greatest hazard of all, losing one's self. This can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly. any other loss like money, an arm, leg, a husband, etc- is sure to be noticed.