An Ode to Creation

At a bachata dance festival right now. Resting my feet while imbibing my other true love— writing. Oh, how I love you so. I’m trying to learn how to read poetry to improve my craft. Poetry is a revolution. It is a wail off the mountaintops, a declaration of war, a love letter to life, a reach for truth and understanding. I write to understand myself… all of my essence. The dancer, the writer, the “tortured” artist (though these days, without the drugs and alcohol, I am no longer tortured). Without my pain, can I still find fodder for creative genius? I need the fire. How do I strike a match from an unperturbed life? I have a roof over my head. Jobs galore, that I adore. I am sober and clean and single as a queen bee. My mind is quiet, I am no longer sad. How can I find inspiration from peace and joy? Love, maybe? Perhaps I need to find a muse. Who, or what, could that be? The answer evades me. I am truly happy, for the first time in my life, not fishing for validation from people I don’t give a shit about. I love myself, and what a journey it was to get there. It’s Camelot, and it smells like summer rain. Inside there is dancing, and I feel so loved on that dance floor. I radiate my essence, I am free from the shackles fo anxiety and illness, my body gives form to the brightness of my soul. I feel seen, when I dance… no more shyness or insecurity. I contort my face in glorious agony as the buttery bachata song gives life to my limbs in all its orgasmic melody. The music beckons, and I must return home.