Sometimes words are jarring, incongruous, out of place.
Sometimes I yearn for silence, space, peace.
Sometimes the words in my head go around and around like a rickety old washing machine, interminable, vacuous, meaningless and vague. Even within the silence of temporary peace, my head can reverberate in irritating, pinchy cycles that don’t seem to want to let go their tenuous yet vicelike grip.
Sometimes words want to escape my throat, visceral, plaintive, desperate to be expressed.
Sometimes, once in a miracle while, words can wrap themselves around me like a hug, or a soft, silken blanket. I can slide in between them, snuggling down, allowing them to caress me from head to toe.
I love words. Language.
Speech, story, song.
Connection, creation, love.
Erotic, gentle touch, smooth yet sticky, whispered entrapments like syrup.
Passionate pleas and protesting devotions, pleading whimpers and gasps of release and relief.
Touch that plunders senses, renders breathing absent, or belaboured.
Touch that tickles, not uncomfortably but invitingly so, the hairs on our bodies also responding, mimicking the breath.
Long drawn out sighs, long drawn out stroking.
Rapid breathless gasps, rapid breathless pleasure.
The softest teasing, inviting, inciting, exciting whispers of touch.
The finest hairs, featherlight touch, breath, exhales.
Goosebumps, mind-bending bodily experiences, existential, flooding potential.
Colours brighten, all senses acutely hyper-aware, the light even holds a different quality.
The magical bubble, within which life ‘out there’ fades from view, and life ‘in here’ becomes the centre of the universal experience.
I am me. I am beyond me, inside, outside, above and all around me. I am we.
We are all.
The miracle, magical, once in awhile.
I truly love words.
Especially when utterly wordless.