desire

We dwell at the center of a web--thirsty spiders, all.

Every tremor, every tug at the silver strands arrayed around us, sends us careening after blood--hurtling after appetite.

Somewhere along the way we acquire ideas about desire.  We indulge.  We refrain.  We get sticky, hung up in our own web.

Sometimes we tangle up desire in a clutch of steely threads, poking our fangs sharply through the object's soft skull, sucking out its steaming, pulpy matter.  We tongue the clutch dry.  Drain the object past the point of resembling anything we first thought we were after.  We cling to the husk, empty and twisting on the line...

Desire drives the universe.  All things act from desire.  Drama occurs when lines of desire intersect.

We, however, with our structures of civility, with our Byzantine moral wanderings, with our existential angst and our need to be somebody--we try to cling to our desires.  We buck the web with our grasping.  We fling drops of dew.  We spread ourselves wide, trying to pull the web back into us, trying to ingest the entire thing so it belongs forever and totally to us alone.

Desire, though, can never be caught in a web, although it may stir the strands like a breeze.  Desire is urge, not action.  Thirst, not liquid.  We can only allow ourselves to be licked and fondled by desire until our entire body is electric and yearning.

As shocked, startled, horrified, or delighted as we may be by it, our desires arise from the deepest place in us.  Desire leads us onward like a will o' the wisp.  It drives us like a galleon master. 

And desire, while so often villified and scorned, is itself elemental, primal, raw. 

We are the ones, in the end, who by our own actions determine if we will, racing after desire, be destroyed or transformed.

Passion, beauty, and love, folks--24 hours at a time...