I am becoming.
I have been becoming.
I will be becoming.
This is becoming.
More beautiful. More peaceful. More free.
More clear. More grounded. More clean.
This is a reclamation of energy.
Words are spells.
Words are spells, and amidst the mess & the noise & the hubbub, there is love.
Words are spells, and through it all— here we are.
Here we are.
I am myself, and that is enough.
I am becoming, and that is enough.
I am beautiful, and that is enough.
I am everything.
I am love.
I am learning to let myself be & feel uncomfortably full without busting at the edges.
That’s it. That’s the post.
That’s the feeling. That’s the way of being. That’s the rootedness.
I don’t give a shit about anything else.
I am learning to conserve, conserve, conserve.
I am learning to give ONLY from a place of turn-on. Not overflow. Turn-on.
It has to fucking turn me on.
If it doesn’t turn me on, I’m out.
Or rather… I’m just not doing it.
Here is my compass:
1. What would turn me on the most?
2. What do I want to be available for?
Fucking. Gutteral.
Fucking is gutteral, too.
And tender. And sweet. And loving.
And many other things.
I had an experience recently that reminded me of what it’s like to let men use my body in disconnected ways for touch-starved gratification.
It had been a while. I was kind of curious.
In three words: “It’s fucking boring”
In five: “It does nothing for me”
It isn’t traumatic. It just isn’t interesting. It doesn’t appeal to me.
I don’t want it. I don’t need it. It’s a no.
Simple.
These words are my talisman right now:
”You wanna honour me? You wanna give something back? Email me in a year & tell me your victories.”
This is the energy I am operating from now.
This is what I have.
This is what I choose.
This is where I am.
There is no void. There are no liminal spaces.
There is just fullness. And space to roam. And space to expand further.
And places to go. And places to be. And nowhere but here. And everywhere is here.
Breathe.