a day of work they say... I feel I have hardly moved at all... I had no chance to dance. Had no chance to create, I copied and pasted and blamed and got annoyed, corrected and motivated... Had been kind and friendly to so many idiots, that my heart screams of betrayal and does not want to talk to me. So many girls that can not stand but long for that man. So many that desire for relive but dwell in relationships that makes them ill. Blame and anger misdirected. The farmer on his field a days work. Just a generation ago they did work like this and enjoyed by end of August, that longing for autumn. Here they start to wake up from a pushing around of holiday and oh do I hate this people, boredom in social and economical stability. Women do not work they intrigue and manipulate at home. Sent their men to work and blame, blame it seems never enough to safe more, consume more and travel more. It is an energy that is creeping up my chest and looks for expression. My fingers, slaves to me, like disconnected from any thought or courtesy they write on. Do I trust this fingers, like I trusted ones that hand that fed me more bad than well, she did her best, I hear them say and still, an anger shakes me when I write and a love seems to hide just behind, where I ones, just a week ago I lay on her breast and it is indeed 45 years ago and it seems any time that old touch is renewed whenever I meet somebody so beautiful that takes my breath away. To come out of my little box, dance, write and paint without thinking of that betrayal that ones, last weekend and so long ago took my hand from me. That reached out to her breast and wanted to comfort and please. So often welcomed one little emotion ended it all and yet there seems to be a life in itself in my hands. As long I long for money and wealth to be more, to show that I am all more and grown up. As long I dwell in that past, I remain that child in a constant longing running from one breast to another. All that I am and want to be right now is here in my place, just in a small distant I can reach to all the places I had ones been. All the breasts that I ones touched and got rejected I had become a part of them and just, if I just could trust my hand and let them say what I feel right now and dig deeper where that path begins to a place that is called the unknown deeper me that is all that is right now that field of humanity that has been created in me, by all the people whether alive or dead that did and do love me for the purity of my heart. For that innocence of a child in me that I hated for so long, until a day ago I spoke up and said:"Oh I hate children so much!" since I feel a calme in myself, not perfect, still pretty neurotic but I feel it is more crucial to me that I become a friend of myself than that of anybody else. And love that maid that just pops up in front of me. Lover like she had been all my life in me, she had been always there when I dreamt at night and blamed the world for my hands that ones reach out and got so badly rejected. That had to go their own way, travel the world many times and find that energy in me that would travel to the moon just express what an energy love can cause. When I stop that fingers now and hit the enter button worlds reality hits me and hundreds of eyes read so quickly what I harvested from the field of my soul and brought to the sun, to the light to be seen because it is me today, just in this moment and while you read I am somebody else. I might be in Asheville, Kiev, San Francisco, Ubud or Odessa. I might make love in Istanbul and in that love making I am almost killed by a police man in Pittsburgh. It is the freedom of the writer that can travel in your mind wherever he had been or not had been or is. Who can make up and lie, can steal and return. It is that voice in me, that philosoph, that farmer and engineer, that electrician and waiter. That manager and psychologist, it is the endless books my mind has stolen and for so long I did not dare to look for them to allow my dance, my fingers and that move of them to be free. To read and be curious with my own eyes what I feel when I write, when I am just mothers tool and grand mothers dream of a child that had died long before. I used to go against them, anger them, trouble them and proclaim war to anybody that wanted to use me and the more the world loved me the more people I found hate. That moment when I turned around and wrote:"That past, it is just too much to me, too many stories I can write to tell you how I felt one week ago..." I wrote hundreds of pages and just to get the grasp of a idea of love. How to tell what i feel when I gently touch a woman that so wide open for me like a flower for that one bee. How to explain what I feel, when her energy becomes part of me, when I feel her flowing through my hand into my body and in a complete essence of life that energy flows back to her. Seconds, minutes of that act of love more than any dream of biological need to exchange what can be done on many ways in a much cleaner manner. A past century of making love of feeling deeply connected to a woman or a man. Men pull me towards them like a summer breath, it is a gentle force and I felt it in the dance, when I got stuck on a shoulder of a man. I felt I landed in the dance and neither head nor heart seemed to be involved, my hands explored his back and slowly I found my way to his belly and my head on his shoulder. A deep warm exchange of equal energy, rejuvenated I felt and we held hands and smiled and repeated it for days, because we felt that love in us, for being a man. My hands move on and dance without me and I feel like going on, giving my body the move that it wants and go for a swim... maybe you enjoy, maybe you hate... it is all energy that I can feel when I am walking outside and I take my bike like a boy that I am...
Posted on: Mon, 19 Aug 2013 17:30:29 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015