oh boy

There's this boy, man really, who thinks the world of my words.  He thinks what I write is beautiful, heart felt, deep.  I think what I write is bearable, but what I would love to put on a page, would capture all of those things and so much more.  I keep learning over and fucking over again, that "greatness" in many ways is simply the ability to surpass inhibition and come from a place of incredible sincerity. Raw truth of self, unfiltered, unapologetic, unashamed.

I wrote this same guy recently, an email of words trying to capture the truth of what I wanted to do to him.  What I wanted him to do to me.  I struggled with it, but I did it.  I wrote down things I have never told anyone but fantasize about and then I pressed 'send'.

I try my best to live my life according to what I will look back in five years and think of it. I make a point of thinking about times in my life when I wish I had the perspective then that I have now, and apply that to present tense.  I don't always get it right, in fact I fuck it up plenty, but I do consciously try.  So why the hell is it always so intimidating to be honest?  Frank in what I want. Deliberate in desire.

I spent 5 years working toward a diploma in healing sciences and the one thing I can really say I learned beyond a doubt, is that the power of bearing witness is phenomenal and phenomenally rare.  That is what I crave.  That is what I think the human race craves.  Witness.

I have fantasized over way too many men and women (that's another one I always curb: I'm fucking bi people!  That doesn't even sum it up.  Tranny's, cross dressers, you name it, I'm in.  Yep, love it all.  It's people I dig.)  in my life, not to mention the past month.  I've burned through more than a couple of friendships and relationships simply by being so forward and intense.  But fuck.  The truth is, I go there.  It often involves a lot of caffeine, but I get that hot, fierce intensity that makes me want to hit, fuck, bite, growl, beat my head against a wall.  And the truth is, I like it!  And damned if it doesn't send a majority of the population sprinting in the opposite direction.

Afore mentioned boy?  Not so much.  He comes straight at me when I'm in that space and OMG is it HOT.  And yet, I can't have him.  He belongs to someone else.  He loves her and she loves him.  Regardless, this is for him.  Maybe this entire blog.  And maybe I'll even tell him someday.  Because he makes me want to be raw and real and fucking dirty.  Better yet, he likes to meet me there, head on.  He doesn't back down or try to talk me out of it.  He doesn't treat me like I'm a freak or unstable.  He likes who I am, what I bring and he opens the door wide open to receive.  Jesus does it feel good.

We agreed that we both like to stick our fingers in the fire.  I'm thinking about having a moth tattooed on my body. After doing a little research, it turns out no one really has a clue why moths are attracted to flames.  There's a theory however, that it's due to celestial navigation, where the moth actually flies in reference to bright objects such as the moon, the North Star...or a porch light.  The only ink on my body at this point just happens to be a small white star on my ring finger.  Put there to remind me to follow my own North Star/heart.  The idea of a moth -though suspiciously and perhaps unacceptably close to a butterfly- seems appropriate as I search eternally for the flames I would navigate by or perhaps, the flame I live, rather than orbit around.  I guess we all have to be careful of the damned porch lights.