My body is mostly mine, but yours too. It’s beautiful, we are beautiful.
I’ve been underestimating my progress, calling it anything but what it is. I am in movement, I am in motion. I am ecstatic and eerie.
The roar of the past and the moans of the future can feel too loud some days. The supple silence of the now offers comfort and grace, however intrigued I am by the noise from elsewhere.
My nails are healthy, my hair has been trimmed. I take care of myself. Breakfasts of ripe peaches and halved kiwis, blueberries and orange juice. Why does it feel so foreign? Why is it so hard to give yourself accolades for the mountains climbed, regardless of the path ahead.
I have not been loving with my own mind. I am critical and harsh with my words and beliefs. But I recognize, late or not, and that is something. I am hard on, worn in, called out. I have been doing so much. The state of change feels more permanent than ever. Where do the days go and who decides when they are through? I want to be loving with myself, I want to be loving with you. Why does the call feel so far away? Why do I feel shame in relaxation.
The focus is on sensuality and a resurgence of such. I kiss my fingertips. The focus is on pleasure in all of its forms. I hold my face like that of a child.
“Where are we going?” she asked
“We’re already there.”