I used to have layers and think that I was somehow mysterious for keeping my life and the details a secret. I used to treat my past as if it were a delicate faberge egg and that the slightest motion could send it crashing into a million pieces.
I used to hide my dreams and desires for fear that I would be judged and possibly ridiculed.
I used to hide the depths of my heart because I feared I would not be understood.
Now I stand a wide open book of stories. Anyone can flip from past to present and even glimpse at my dreams for a future.
I have no shame.
I have no secrets.
I have nothing to hide and everything is bared for anyone interested enough to peek inside this mad mind. And it is mad. There is madness in my thoughts.
I am not neatly put together. I swing wildly from one moment to the next, simultaneously hopeful and filled with despair. I feel guilt for feeling and guilt for not feeling.
I am both practical and whimsical.
I want an honest life because through brutal, unyielding honesty I can get to the core of who I am.
I am madly in love and alone, not to be confused with lonely…far from it.
Lately, I have become asexual. A concept that has stunted me. For all the passion I have and lust for life and insatiable appetite for sex, I have abstained.
Somewhere along the way I wanted sex to matter, in more than a physical way.
I am craving a connection to my soul.
It’s not something that I did consciously, but something I have become acutely aware of.
This abstinence, regarding my body as more than a receptacle and more of a temple.
And that’s not to say that’s how I felt, because I have thoroughly enjoyed my sex life thus far and the freedoms that come with being a single, liberated sexual being. But something has shifted and I have felt it less important these days.