Patience

Patience.
What a nasty game this is.
Essential for faith and understanding and advancement but brutal and bewildering at times.
Patience.
Waiting with the faith that everything is okay one way or another.
I long for the way we made love through prose, ones and zeroes across the globe typing first thing in the morning and last thing at night, fighting, confessing, loving unconditionally and burning endlessly...
I love a woman and sometimes I wish I didn't, but in loving I see myself...In loving through it all I see the face of God and that is irreplaceable.
Inescapable.

Oh, but it burns!
My mind fills with fantasies of what to do to make it better. I feel like maybe I've done something wrong...my egoic pursuits have left her cold, my harsh words have hurt, my whatever has done some ill and now I am hated.
I've been ugly and I must once again do something extraordinary to prove myself worthy of her love...to get back in good graces, I must love stronger, have greater shows of faith, I must save face and win a few points...
I know at my core that this has nothing to do with me. She's on her own trip...off on pilgrimage sifting through the sands of a Turkish desert in search of full acceptance of Self.
The vision clear she seeks from others will only be found through this.
Through losing her own shame, those seeds of debilitation that cripple a soul as quickly as a bullet kills...She's living her life and figuring her head and heart and I've played several of many parts...

My life continues on this continent.
Generating content for volumes left unrested deep within this heart of mine.
The books I am to write. The stories I am to tell. The man I am becoming.
I can rest in that. Sit easy in the driver's seat of my own internal spaceship.
This shit makes me queasy.
My stomach twists in knots sometimes. I am in a wretched state of love. And the lesson I've learned and felt time and again...What does my heart say?
My heart says, "Go Love Some More."

I woke this morning with the taste of yabyum yoni on my tongue.
I awoke with a burning desire to love through physical form, knees back, thighs squeezed around a juicy, pungent cunt, my face buried deep in that blissful pillow.
Juicy Puja.

Too many memories now flooding in coming through too many projections and fantasies of what has and may have happened in my absence too many uncomfortable moments in my head and so I sit and breathe and burn through them all, seeking solace only in this pen scratching this page in an age-old comfortable way, leaving ink smeared in clear lines to say exactly what's on my nasty mind.
Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!!!
Doesn't matter, Son. Why is not the question. You know that you move in divine time and order. Why is just a question of the mind, a function of the ego. A need to place blame on another name, to pin a crime to another man's vest when no crime has been committed. An omission of trust perhaps, but really just a collective of humanity seeking to know God through the form of ones and twos. Seeking the rhythm of the formless through the form of flesh, melted in gentle whispers and awkward fumblings.
Grace tasted like earth.

Patience.

A salve. These understandings and ramblings are beeswax and olive oil mixed with herbal words to pull the infectuous jealousy and wear to the surface that they may be released to the ethers. Trouble me no more.
I don't need that woman to experience my life. Shakti sits with me, as the peace from these pages scrawled upon shows. I have it all inside, and in hiding that light I deprive myself and my tribe of the knowledge and experience of divinity playing with me,
through me,
as me.

Ah, to play...

You see the milkmaids toiling yonder in the barn? Squeezing drop after drop of sweet creamy amrit from the teat of the beast...Do they know where they are going at the end of this day? Maybe some of them play fantasies of where they'd like to end up...at the bottom of a cup of tea in a lover's hands, in between soft sheets in a mother's bed, at the tavern till midnight to awaken hungover and do it all again...but at this very moment, there is only the music of milk in the bucket and a crisp tune sprung forth from fresh reds, rooted in the heart of youth.
Be as this milkmaid coven. Whistle your tune and work merrily. The beloved has it laid, and it's made of moments like these. Even in misery find your music, muse or no muse. Grind the wanting into words and through this experience, see and know your God.

Patience, sweet child.
And Love.