Everytime I go to type your name I get held back, like a prayer I have been conditioned to swallow.
Everytime I think your name the earth beneath me tilts, a silent resonance shuffling through layers of the earth. They say places hold memory. I feel like if I think about you too often you’ll feel it, or sense it, or worse- hate it. I try and curtail my longing, an operate under the belief that you are just as aware as me. Fluent in etheric, invisible smoke signals.
There is no room for intellect in this business. We are in the business of trusting resonance over logic, following psychic nudges to places that feel like home. Hunting truth. When did you give up?
I have learned how to take possession of my own timeline, by making myself big- I stretch my field far across the land. I make myself massive- in an opalic bubble that stretches- churns and crashes into the caves of Malibu, presses deep and thick into the mycelium networks all the way through the forests of Los Angeles Crest, encompassing everything. I make my timeline sensual, erotically innocent. I fill it with pretty things to disguise the void. I have eaten at all the beautiful restaurants. Charmed my way through every variation of “appropriate” man.
You can’t fake resonance. Resonance hits you hard in the heart and it procures stains on the soul that can never be eradictated. I’ve tried. Replace, Rinse, Repeat.
and now I learn to hold that delicate void empty, sit with it, nurse it. Befriend it. Be soft spoken to it.
I don’t need you to offer me any more than what you have already, even on your worst day.