one doesn't often appreciate what exists until it is missed. and the furore of the full swing band once it moves on leaving only gyrating tumbleweed behind is quickly pined for once a situation is taken stock of. silence is only golden when one can see through the blur of the fast moving glittered shine of white noise. all that glisters is not gold, often have you heard that told... but in the stillness it stands true, echoed by your bodiless voice, your visage transmitted over my computer screen from thousands of miles way. given pixelated shape.
when an AWOL monk finds herself as part of a pair after a longterm pilgrimage of traversing dusty paths mostly single-handedly in a realm of inequality, it's nice to be reminded that it's no longer necessary to be alone. or unrequited. and that it might be time to retire one mantle in order to adopt another. a careful consideration. we can hold hands & face the world together.
in a world of questions re: reality and the frailty of self-created bubbles, it is better to be reminded than forgotten. the fresh stimulus provided by an injection of tangible chemistry which lives & breathes in balanced equation despite physical disconnection. no out of sight, out of mind but a need to soak in the luxuriance of your shadow. and vice versa. the many guises of peter pan. but you will catch it.
our interludes much more anais nin than maxim because despite physical meets fantastical needs, this monk has no desire to wander into the territory blazed by those beforehand keeping in mind the longevity of the interwebs. despite the lure of the medium and contextual ease technology offers to maintain closeness when in a state of longing, google is forever. and mbs have an errant habit of finding themselves publicly online at some unforseeable future date regardless of noble intentions. more often than not, the condom needs to be placed on the internet connection, not human.
so don't call me a prude & content yourself with an accidentally flashed nip or two, whimsical ruminations or barely discernible curved forms conjured with crushed blacks & pinks cast from the japanese lamp which sits aside my bed with the dodgy swinging bamboo we knocked that night scrambling for everything else on the table, in our heat-filled haze.
my porn tags are my own. as our banter development curve grows, with less reliance on habitual physical punctuation & the silence lessens, the weight of a rainbow spewing synced vibrations rates higher than any precious monochromatic mineral while we languish in our unfinished late night reflections. some things are still worth waiting the distance for.