Writing has been at a bit of a standstill. Not because there has not been ample time, I honestly have simply been "unmooded" for this particular creative outlet. Stress causes that, I'm sure. Also, I have not been working out, and according to people that know, that contributes to stress. However, writing is not only a creative outlet for me, it is part of who I am. I am a writer. Good or bad, that facet is part of my ever growing identity. So, not writing is a type of starvation rather than a type of fasting or healthy abstention.
Anyway, I am moving into uncharted territory for myself: Romance. Please take into consideration that I have no real desire to write a tale that investigates base chemistry between individuals, one's desire for another, or even a tale that rests on co-dependent intrigue. I am far more interested in depicting the deeper, ancient limerance of our plight in all relationship. The intentional, on-purpose push past pain and shame, hurt and death, and into the enveloping immersion of true love. The hover of mouth over mouth may never culminate into a kiss. Desire is not realized in the reciprocity of being loved back, but in the fervor of one that brings the strength of their ability to be a source and resource for another. This is the age-old story of a parent who loves her children without expectation for renumeration. An artist's purity of creation for it's own sake. A God's empowerment of a people who could one day be just alike. Romance for romance. Not for the hackneyed illusion of giving for the sake of getting. Altruism in it's perfect form. Anchronistically misunderstood and powerful in any context. We have explored the banal, oversexed, and transient forms. And ashes remain. I just hope I am a good enough writer to convey this. Bear with me as I attempt this amid smokestacks and gear grease. Appositional to black powder and undiscovered peril. Because love is only love if it remains in any milieu and landscape.
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