Her body is the marriage of grace and sex. It's there amongst the music of her speech and the noise of her distance from my hand. It bends to imitate the ways of lovers in bed and sways like that of a dancer. Her body falls into my bed and "come," it says. Too much for my brain to behold, my body retreats.
I surround myself with my books and pens, waiting for the spark of a flame. I bounce in my chair, waiting to rid myself of excess words--- becoming angry that they come faster than my fingers can write them; that they can only exist as words; that they are stationary; that in preparation for them, they flee. Why do they flee? They wait for a moment of ill-preparedness to be captured. They hide. They seldom come when called, but they do come. When I'm in the throws of passion, they come always. When my mind is filled with a misty brightness, they come. But, when summoned without a purpose--- as though they're capable of discerning this, they flee or simply refuse to show. Writing is sex..
The feeling of not wanting to leave when I've stumbled upon something great is the summary of my night. I call to the empty room and hear my message replayed to my ear. "Writing is sex." I impregnate my words with my purpose by thrusting my wholeness into the arrangement of my letters, words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, stories. A burst ripples through me--- a purpose is conceived. I relax--- my complete composition, my child, exists.
Can I really call myself a writer? I suppose...
I am a writer because I write. I write because I must. No more, no less.