I was rolling restlessly in bed. I was yearning,
and I wanted to talk with the Woman with no name.
I could not blame anyone but my self for this anxious pine to converse with the divine source Herself.
Thus, at 2:30 I arose to compose this whet letter at the table, unable to sleep because of this aching need to write to my muse.
In utter silence I am writing almost confused as to why I am here, for I am not aware of the next word until it is written. It is almost as if the pen itself is smitten with Her and I am but the conduit, the medium, the transmission, and the receiving funnel through which Her energy travels to twitch and move my fingers with lithe force.
My shoulders are a little tense now, going through this ethereal channeling exercise, but my eyes feel tired again, and I do believe that I will lay back down to rest quietly, cleansed of the creative anxiety that had piqued this epistolary longing and necessary respite from slumber.
the art of love
l.m