Can’t stop feeling you, me, the interweaving movement of things ringing, expanding. An orgasmic opening. How to explain it? There’s a threshold. I’m breath and heat and waves of electric buzzing, whispering sweet nothings and at the brink my forehead wrinkles in an impulse to think a thought that doesn’t exist and I release back into my rhythmic purring, something shifting. Full bodied participation in this moment. No mind dictating what’s allowed to happen, what’s too much pleasure. For this body? More, always. A process revealing meaning like poetry — shapes making words building bridges. Truth and beauty and yes, goodness. Ecstatic observing. Always on a precipice pressing into unseen edges; aliveness in feeling. Feeling: neither thinking nor figuring nor any “right thing.” Trusting what is, alive, embodied as holy mystery, divine encounter is not some grand pinnacle, some extravagant gesture. It is. Awaken to this in each inspired breath, Do you see? Do you smell the roses? Do you hear the beautiful chorus, harmonic? It is no metaphor, this myth, magick. Witches and bliss. How do you see the universe? I am love making love. Instrument, conductor, artist, all of this, all wandering spirit through fascia woven, all kisses and your fingers and I breathe, O! My mouths, watering. I can feel from miles away your fingers in my hair and I cry and I love you. And I am the love that I am. The love that pours from this breath and this pen and this instrument. What if mirrors were not here? I would feel you, depth penetrating hunger’s dance, touching your magnetic chest. I am rapt, unraveling the process of becoming greater than any thought could have me believe I am that I am that I am that, over there, what separates me from it but an illusory thought? When I hold my breath lately, I whoosh into the air. There is no mirror, so I must be levitating. All of me up from the depths. All of me surfacing freedom. Do I die? When I fly? Maybe that is it. No longer “me” yet more than ever everything I dreamed. Right here. All body all you all me all we all encompassing, this moment pervasive. The period at the end of your sentence. Don’t stop feeling. I won’t either. The point is here.
Hi, I’m Faye, welcome. Here, we get a little naughty on the journey to personal empowerment. And we do it through the realm of the erotic. We move from prescriptive to expressive. From obedient to deviant. From copied to embodied.
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*whistles* Wow, what a beaut, Faye! You have mastered the art of lining up symbols to point in that impossible direction, toward the ineffable. Superb.
If only more people, men and women both, could learn the ways of ecstasy, trading their inherited shame for it, as you so clearly have. You lead by example.
beautiful poetry. A rare description of love making fully immersed in LOVE and EROS and connection with life (rather than e.g. frustration, violence, addiction, trauma...)