After it was over, all I could see was light. All I could feel was light. All I could be was light.
She was pure love energy, radiant fascinating white, like staring directly into the center of a star without the sting. My eyes were closed.
I could make out just enough of her: the gentleness along the curve of her back as she knelt before me. The giant fluid outline of what could have been the perfect wings. Her hands held mine as my arms were spread open in meditation.
In one weightless, slender movement both of her thumbs slid down the length of the inside of my willing arms, elbow to wrist, opening me up. As the white of my skin parted into the white of her glow she poured cascades of endless light like tranquil liquid pools into me.
It can be tough sometimes to nail down the exact beginning of a thing.
The beginning of a relationship, for instance, (did it begin when you first saw him? when you first touched her? when you suddenly realized you couldn’t stop thinking about him? on a date? in a fight?) or when you first began to enjoy decidedly grown up stuff like I don’t know . . . coffee. Or the opera. Or beets.
That’s why it’s fairly surprising to me that over the past three weeks I have come to discover not only the beginning of the stuff that’s hard to pin down but the beginning of everything.
No really, feel this – it’s totally wild. I know you can’t see it but just put your hand in, come on.
It’s all good, seriously, you want to feel this. It’s incredible.
It’s beyond worth it, I promise.
I often feel artistically driven by something that’s hard to describe. Driven to create, to explore, to look at things upside down, spread apart and then from 80,000 feet above. It’s not even a drive maybe as much as a compulsion to keep uncovering and keep digging and keep sharing.