.

The tips of my fingers tap melodies upon my plastic keyboard. My limbs yearn for an artistic outlet, again. I say 'again' because I have let that fire fade from my breast. A soft, flickering flame is what it has become. I'm going forth to fetch some firewood...

.

There's a hunger roiling deep inside of me. It shifts to my lips and my fingertips, deftly wandering around on foreign skin, and tasting passion where passion gives. Rejoicing in one's embrace; sweet and stimulating, fleeting as it may, it burns stoutly all the while.

winter of our discontent

I've spent numerous days counting out the many grievances of the world upon achy fingertips:
1. Overpopulation -- a gentle flick of the thumb.
2. Dissociation -- the index gets a pinch.
3. Quality/Quantity -- the middle bends back under pressure..
(just to name a few)

But, wait. Let's turn this around and take a different approach, maybe towards enlightenment rather than burdensome.

I lay my palms up so my skin can feel the open air with its full attention. The sensation simultaneously makes my head swim with pleasure, my eyes close as if to draw focus towards feeling every molecule floating in the air. This, and much more. I am most enraptured with my ability to surround myself with life and the things that I love: growing knowledge, a healthy body, kind souls,  creative minds; an insatiable yearning, mountainous books for me to befriend, and John Steinbeck.

I'm trying.