Clouds, so impermanent, advise her that reality is a mere dream. The illusion of solidity in their shape and comforting forms is exactly that, illusion, disappearing as temperature changes, wind blows or night extinguishes day. Why would a cloud be other than this? I marvel at such simplicity. I will endeavour to leave clouds to their journey, not fall in love with them in any other way than to share their pleasure of being vaporous perfection.
Sometimes I just miss people. I want to hold them in my arms and feel their heart beat. I want to look into their souls. Share stories. Linger in all the delicious ways. This isn’t lust. There are many ways to be in the world. Lust has its place. But the kind of desire I speak of is a love so deep that it may only last a second yet find perfection. The willingness to be absolutely present. This is not a contradiction. The longing is a sweetness, something that poetry holds hands with and prose takes a long walk through aimless streets.
I ask you directly because your silence takes me to the edge and I drown in deep water. What do you fear? You are free as a line that escapes from the pen. We made magic for a time. Our colours sang loudly. Our words whispered softly. Does your heart miss one tiny beat?
I am the muse, the photographer.and the scribe.
Which came first? A reasonable question.
The answer remains mysterious.
Ethereal as the twisted trees in a silent forest.
Shadowy as a room painted with sunlight.
Fluid as a heartbeat felt beneath my naked breast.
I’ve been working on this project for a couple of years now and excited about it’s birth into the world!
I have had time to sit with my dreams and my fears and I am empty. Nothing but flesh and bones. If my mind wanders into dangerous territory I pick up my sketchbook and draw. I don’t know you at all. Do we ever know anyone?
Love love love love love. Why not?
# A little painting I made in France.
Sharing the Love, oil on canvas, 30×30 cm, copyright Jeni McMillan