I want to find that place or that great arrival, like when someone arrives from a plane in the center of paradise. I want to feel the warmth of an island breeze across my skin when the sun is high and the air smells from the turquoise sea.
I want to build myself in this manifestation of paradise, alone, of course, with you as you are—no fixing or changing or the need to adjust or wear anything that symbolizes the grandiosity of our social presence.
I want to be stripped of our so-called worldly possessions and see nothing else but life without the burdens of unnatural things, like say, Lexington at 45th during the rain when everyone is hurling themselves in a mad dash to get to the Metro North Railroad at Grand Central Station.
I want to see something undressed, as if to be removed from the process of the fake or the bullshit presentations, which we see with everyday life. I want to see you undressed, of course, but not in the sense of sex or sexuality, which is not to say that sex or sexuality is not included with this. But more, I want to see you removed, stripped down, and I want to see you as you are, without any reservation, without limits, inhibitions, or without any of your needless concerns that hold you back and keep you from moving forth.
This is euphoria.
This is beauty at its purest. Or then again, this is you.
There are no more numbers to our hysteria. There is no more counting the thoughts of what could go wrong.
We can be free.
Or better, we can be as we have always wished. We can be free from the distractions that kept us apart. We can be free from the blindness that blurred the senses and free enough to wipe away the burdens of shame.
There is no more room left for the social inaccuracies of beauty.
No. Those things don’t exist in a place like this.
I want to be somewhere off the grid and far from the places where manmade life can change or molest the landscapes.
I want to see you smile. I want to see the weight of all your past vanish or disappear, as if you passed through the gates of an unexplained paradise, and came back to yourself in your truest form which, of course, is beautiful.
I want this. You.
I want to walk away without the misconception that I will be alone or that somehow, this is only a dream.
Just a dream.
I want to feel redeemed. I want to feel the wealth of what it means to be liberated and rescued, or unchained from a life that has been unfit for too long.
I want the absence of rage and to abolish the resentments of rejection.
I want to clear the way and be reborn, rebuilt, or recovered from the mental viruses that plague people like you and me.
I want to see your skin as it glistens in the sun. I want to watch your hair blow back from a gentle wind, and with the sea to your left and palm trees to your right, the beach ahead, the waters are quiet, alone, as in just the two of us.
We are here, and free from the burdens of self, free from regret, free from the burdens of shame and free from the misperceptions of inaccurate beauty.
I want to see this. No, wait.
I want to live this.
I want this life to come to fruition and like the sands that drink the tides when the waves come in, I want to take you in, just as well, as if to consume you or to enjoy you and sip from your essence and, at last, I can stand on my own. I can stand in the white sands with the sun on my face, absolved from my sins, and absolved from my past or my past mistakes.
I want to find myself here, vulnerable as can be, wholehearted, or wholesome, as if to be me, or at least the best version of me, which is otherwise unseen by anyone else.
Except for you.
I want to be the real me.
I want to offer myself in true submission. Not sadly or weak or presenting myself as if to be mislabeled or in other words, I want you to have this with me—where I am clean, untainted, and removed from my old and toxic self.
There is no high like this.
There is no high like a world, tuned out, removed from the typicalness of people, places and things that draw us back to the everyday negotiations, which we call life.
There are no more regrets here. There are no more numbers to list our complaints. There is no more waste or productions from an insecure memory, which is neither true nor false, but only inaccurate due to the sway of my irrational fear and emotional applications.
I think of you . . .
I wonder.
I wish.
I want to put aside the factors that cause me to overthink and be overly concerned about the worst possible scenarios.
I believe the sea around us, the turquoise water, the white-sand beaches and the purity is far better than any euphoria that I could imagine. And yes, I do imagine this.
Do you?
The Written Addiction 