FEED My MIND: Adventure. Learn. Live. Write.
Sometimes the further she went to find herself, the more she wished she had remained lost. Despite appearances, she was not on some damn journey. She knew exactly where she was going and why.
She traveled alone- always- every bit of searching outside of her head became fodder for those who wished to label her.
She learned-she did not burden her friends- instead, she confided in strangers, shared her story and via their clicks and responses and comments, she eased her conscience, gave credence to her reason.
As she wrote, every bit of testing of the waters became a litmus for where her mind was going, or had been.
Words on a page became a radar detector, identifying the gutter in between her ears, proof she steeped herself in venial sins.
Hell, her eyes wandered to belts and the gait of his walk even during Sunday morning services. Morality became a false mirror for an honest need.
And as she wrote, every bit of half-truth and exaggerated emotion carried her truth.
Yes, all of it was hidden casually behind candor and words dripping with touch. Her mind connected with her keyboard like lovers and 900 thread-count the linens on hotel beds facing the sea- the ones she didn’t have to think about washing the next day, but stained in places where her back arched as she lifted her hips by her heels.
The desk clerk always smiles when he hands over his credit card, stands staring at his card a little too long.
And despite shoulders squared, hair slicked back, his lover standing next to him, her man of the moment feigns indifference to naive judgement.
Speaking her truth means facing the risk of misinterpretation. Or worse, the fear of true understanding by another. Her distractions serve as proof she has fallen into the deep crevasse of his heart but she denies it, always crediting lust.
In her defense, she has pulled herself way from the edge of dishonour. With white knuckles placed no more trust in this path of give and take, she swears she will not let herself fall into such exquisite languor ever again.
But she does.
Finger wagging aside, she takes the leap beyond the limits of her mind and spills all of it in fits and tantrums, dressed and undressed in fine French lingerie, the unmistakable mark of her perfume layers his memories.
She lived. She should have never loved.