My desire to write is very like lust. It wakes me from my sleep and demands my attention. When I am unable to placate the urge, it remains an itching in my brain, a deep primal compulsion. My mind rarely strays from the insistent burn when the desire goes unsatisfied. Even when my thoughts must move to daily tasks, there is a place in my brain that cannot forget what must be consummated before I can rest.
You are the reason for my restlessness. You inspire me to write and you arouse my lust. Between the two, my mind is constantly pressed with urge, desire, need. This is not a complaint. You feed that live wire electricity beneath my skin. Without it I would be hollow. This is what it feels like to live.
My desire to write can be satisfied, at least temporarily; my need for you seems endless. Again, it's too much to tell you how often my thoughts stray to you.
When I write, when I embody the perfect mind state to craft my words the way I want them to fall on the page, I am all sensation. I am the words on the page, they are an intrinsic part of me. I am the restlessness, the urges, the compulsion, the pressing fuck me now need. Do musicians meld with their instruments the way I live my words? Every chord flowing from my speakers the musicians plucked on my guitar string rib cage. There is sheer artistry in pulling emotion from your audience the way these players do.
You asked me why I had such a good morning. Silly question. I had an extraordinary morning because the object of my desire was moved by my writing, by my pictures. I relish that response, "Jesus." I had an extraordinary morning because the glowing need controlling my body was answered by the same need guiding yours.
I crave your touch. I have an insatiable need for you, for what your touch does to me. Every blog I write is a call to action. Every blog I write is a plea.