This dream. It's entirely inappropriate.
Since when did being appropriate become a religion?
I dreamt last night of the past, foggy sky. Grey with cloud cover. An apartment. Big. White, but old. Old and messy in the best way. Old television flickering with the light of some 80's movie on VCR. Turned down low.
Friends. Cohorts. Laughing. Leisure. And then an angry you. You in the background. Lurking. Wanting attention but not forthrightly. Of course not.
When I woke up, the teeth of my mind chewed on that evasive feeling. What was it? What?
It was a flittering and glowing thing. Impossible to capture. To capture it would be to kill it. Loss of potency. Its potency lies in the elusiveness... Still. What was it? What?
I thought some more. One feeling was like that of a bird. Resting. Easy. Lovely in its way. Nothing like that flittering thing. It didn't glow, but it was warm. It was unimposing and real. Like I said-easy. Husband material. Yes, I said that out loud. I married it--out loud.
Back to this other thing. To name it. Just to name it. And then I realized what it was. It was that same feeling I had when I decided I wanted to drive a standard. Paint. Shave off all of my hair. It was the feeling I had when I gave a eulogy. Published. Art. Meeting new people. It was a feeling of life. The feeling that caused me to grow. Develop. Change. In short, this was a feeling of want. Want. Reaching towards the things I want and want badly. Want so much it makes me ache.
And the question then became about whether it was good and healthy and in my mind I could not say it was because I am married. Attached to so many things. People. Hearts. My actions effect others. I am not alone. I am not unencumbered. I cannot freely move through my thoughts. I cannot even do that much. It is entirely inappropriate. It is the ripple on the pond and one move in the wrong direction is the rock I just threw.
To attach a letter or four to the feeling I will say lust. Lust. And to openly admit it was that and so strongly so that it haunted me all this time. What was that ghost? That feeling? That breath rushing across the back of my neck. I felt it like a hot hot fire rushing river-wide inside my soul.
It whispers. It churns. It burns. And I do nothing. There is nothing I can do. I am cursed. Or is it blessed? Under what sign was this life brought forth? Under the sign of fire, of course. Under fire I was born and under fire I will live. Under all that hot hot fire. It is warm. It is alive.
Two sexual titans going toe to toe, he said. And I couldn't imagine it was so obvious.