The Truth is screaming to be known. I take to pen and paper allowing visceral knowing through curated fingers instead of tap tap on keys.
Truth gnaws at my insides.
See me. Know me.
Done with marinating in the pool of longing.
It claws at my throat, ripping through layers of properness. Of what-do-you-want-me-to-beness.
Like a cat scratching at the door to be let out, to become the lioness hunting in the wild woods. To feel her true nature.
Truth destroys the proper image. Seething, boiling, electrifying nerves.
There is no more room to hide. The boarders are falling away leaving raw, thick goo, an unformed infant.
From the depth, a being with wild hair, vibrant booming voice, robe of chartreuse flapping in the wind. She roars with laughter, enfolds me with strong ample arms. Carries me out of the darkened shell.
The Truth, The Truth. If only I knew what it was.
But She does. And She will light the way.
My senses are awakened. The sun is brighter. Possibilities beckon
"visceral knowing through curated fingers" "done with marinating in the pool of longing" -- wildness bursst forth -- the energy explodes ... and what is at the heart of it? Truth. Demanding, finally, only truth, for god's sake.
ReplyDeleteso powerful - in its cadence, in its energy - it envelops me
ReplyDeleteLove the visceral nature of "visceral knowing through fingers" chosen over the tap tap of cold cold keys...What a fascinating and creative and original piece of writing!
ReplyDeleteI like your addition of the "cold cold" keys, Gloria. I think i will add that.
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