March 24, 2006 @ 8:13am

This morning I'm feeling severely introspective, trying to uncover that part of me that struggles to allow people into my life on a closer level and in a sustaining meaningful way. I keep asking myself, what is it that drives me inward at the expense of outwardly connections? Where does my natural tendency to enjoy people come from and where does it go once I am alone? And why am I always horny, for the love of sex, and this ratchet angst inside me feels like fire? Where is my balming cure?
No dream reminants this morning, just a hankering between my legs. It's heightened today almost in that way that makes me give in to an unsatisfying booty call. Perhaps if I openly tell myself that I have this need for sex all the time, maybe it will subside, dissipate or just lose it's physicality. I am not usually open about this to myself, this is why I am introspective, digging deep and searching for the places I tend to not pay attention to but on a superficial level. Except there is nothing superficial about the raging fire between my thighs and the hardening of my nipples when I think about what it all means. The measures I take to ease the sensation are futile, almost instigative in nature, adding kindle to raging flames, this is when I plead with God to bring someone loving into my sanctum. This is when I normally resort to measures I soon regret and acts that don't feed the hunger or at least not in any tangible way but I pray these words I give to myself this morning cull any unretractable behavior and I hope with bringing the issue to the forefront of my mind, I will find healing, find some natural effervescent cure.
I enjoy when the words ring with poetry and swish around language in a lucid fashion, this is where I am most at home, where I am most alive and free. I thought about a story the other night, one told to me by a fellow writer and it haunts me. Images circumvent all thoughts, cast it's presence front stage style and I'm giving involuntary attention to this story. This is my cue that my writerly hands will traverse the edges of the story and blanket it upon the page. It is a tale of a young man who grows up not knowing his father yet is attended to by a local man who owns the barber, a man who visits his home regularly, a man who his mother obviously likes but will not allow herself to get close to. The man spends his life comfortably without the stigma of fathelessness because this man from the Barber takes up that space that would otherwise be unfulfilled. The story is tragic in that in the end, the young man discovers that the barber is his real father but instead of relief, he feels a deep sense of betrayal, so much so he ends up killing the man. What is inside of a person who kills at the brink of truth and why is betrayal such a daunting emotion to dig through? Why doesn't healing attach itself to the unveiling of untruths? I suspect that the killing was merely an accident, like when you close and door and it slams, you hadn't realized your own strength. Or maybe in wanting a father for the bulk of his life, to come face to face with the man that is his father but chose to not reveal his true identity is all too much to bear in the face of a deep seated yearning. I want to write this story but I can't get to the why of the ending. A part of me says write and let the truth unfold and spill out in it's own time.
There is something about writing today that has a quality I've been needing, a spaciousness for sefl examination and a tilling of emotional soil.
I am perfect and I am whole and I am complete. I LOVE ME!