In an attempt to break up the monotonous posts about Christmas (ba-humbug), I have decided to do a bit of early reflection. Not of my life, no, but as a person.
On the drive home earlier this week, I had been drained from work activities and was thinking about writing anyway. It’s harder on these days as I am already mentally exhausted, but when the ‘groove’ is accomplished, I know I could write for hours. It just takes that extra effort to convince my brain it is a must; a desire to accomplish the second part to my series.
As the wiper blades flicked the droplets of air sweat away from my line of sight, only one word repeated through my head: Desire.
This lead me down the rabbit hole that is the realm of a writer. Oh, what a wonderfully dangerous place it is! I’ve often referred to fictional writing as a personal high and wondered if anyone has attempted to monitor one’s brain while they were in their writing groove. I can come out of a chapter in a haze and it takes me a bit to come back down to earth. Who knows, maybe I’m just a weirdo. SCIENCE!
While allowing this flow to take over, I found that my writing looks extremely creepy, but… lovely. Here goes!
Her face, emotionless and pining for truth. Oh, how well she knows me. How deep she she can dive with the warmest blue eyes I have ever seen. Eyes that hypnotize her companions with the sincerity of her smile, drawing them closer to the heat of her heart. A heart too large for her own well-being. Its fragile, bandaged cracks and thin scars are only small obstacles for this gluttonous muscle.
Waves of gold and dark brown cascade to her shoulders, framing her soft, speckled flesh. The corners of her light pink lips stretch, revealing her non-symmetrical dimples and small mole resting against her kiss.
Behind her kindness and her thoughtful candor, she longs for her secrets to be accepted. Secrets that she only reveals to those she has deemed worthy. Those who have played her chess game, proving to admire her at her best, and has cradled her at her worst.
This emotional creature wants nothing but to feel. Feel everything.
The softness of a happy piglet. The wet nose of a puppy. The sharp blades of tall grass in an open field. The first bite of fall. The hug of an old friend. The immediate warmth of a pink sunrise. The scruffiness of her deceased father’s cheek. The call of the stars on a midnight hike. The trickling fingertips of a covert affair. His slow, soft kiss against her neck. Her passionately pulsing heart when he says her name. The taste of his tongue against hers. Just Him… a thousand times.
The heat romantically reddens her high cheek bones as a bashful smile ducks her face away from her gaze. I reach in consolation, only to be greeted with the brisk, thud of glass. This free spirited, adventurous vixen turns to me with an endearing expression. All that she is burns within me, past the dark thoughts and the never-ending sadness. She is the epitome of Love and Desire.