2008-01-04
my-lody
I want to delve into the pleasure and wonder of my self.
My own sweat, my fresh mouth, an uncreased face, my singular feeling.
I want to stride, to pulsate, to sing to the leaps and sparks of my body. Bask in the sun, feel my self.
If I could have a spark of Whitman's whimsiness, and a slice of Emerson's self-reliance. I already have a twinkle and a sliver of each, respectively. If I could use it to ascend...
I have known the tenderness of a man's lips on mine. I have longed for the romance of a sweet union. But I have not known a solo indulgence of my own self. I want a taste, a passionate bite of my own flesh, to soar through the enigma of my own mind.
And there's an analogy for everything. I'm like a baker who sells their foods to others, and who feasts upon the creations of fellow cooks, but never really falls into a savory experience of their own goods.
It is delicate. It mustn't be egoism. It mustn't be recluse. It must be a celebration, as Whitman would want, and a glorious independence as Emerson, that has one intrinsically weaved into the earth and this all-encompassing tapestry of existence, roots deep and intertwined.
It starts with songs penetrating deep within my chest, words and tones fluttering through, and it continues with these words that I type as I avoid doubt and self-criticism. And it will go on, so long as it may.
leesah-likes at 3:31 p.m.