Good Or Bad, I Was One Of The Ones

I wonder though.
What does it mean to go crazy? And when I say crazy, I don’t mean to go crazy in a bad regard or in the sense that this becomes clinical or sadly dangerous.
Not at all.

When I say crazy, I mean this in the best way possible. I say this because if I want to be one thing, or anything, I want to be the one who knows how to do this.
I want to know how to have fun.
I want to know how to let go and to let it all hang loose.
I want this.

I want the benefits of wild memories that echo with satisfaction in my old age. I want to create something wild and crazy because when the time comes and I am faced with the consequences of meeting my Maker, I want to be prepared in every sense of the word.

Yes, I have things to pay for.
Yes, I have guilt and I have sins to answer for.
So be it.
There is no hiding my truth, at least, not to the All-Seeing One, or to God, also known as The Father or God the Father.

I cannot slip through this one nor can I avoid the all-seeing camera which has caught me, on tape, live and in-person and thus, when I have to answer and accept my fate, be it hell or the higher journey; I will have my memories to keep me safe and more blessed than the Gates of Heaven .
.
Yes. I am far from clean. I am a sinner.
Of course, I am.
I have the invisible dirt on my hands to the point where maybe some people would call me filthy.
But judge away because when it was said, “Let he among you who is without sin cast the first stone,” no one here can stone me first.

I was who I was
At the same time, that’s not me.

I am not that one.
I am not the evil one or the bad one.
No, more accurately, I was the troubled one or the missing one.

I am the one who was always trying too hard to find myself amongst the masses.
I was always the one, afraid too much and afraid of too many things.
I am the one who is always worrying that somehow, my sad ineffectual self will only be recognized and deemed unworthy, or worse; my biggest fear is that I will always be unwantable, undesirable, and too unmatchable to fit with that one beautiful person.

Either way, what does it mean to go crazy in the best way possible?
What does it mean to lose your internal envy and to stop the presses in your head?
No more fear. No more insecure whispers.
No more doubts.
And even if there were more of the above, there would be no more caring about either of the above.

What does it mean to abandon all hopelessness? And what does it mean to do this so the war room in your head can rest and your unanswered soldiers can disarm their madness and return from battle?
What does it mean to throw caution to the wind in such a way that no one else can stop you and nothing else can stand in your way?

In my best estimation, I suppose this is why there’s music.
Maybe this is why I love being on the floor at concerts so much.
And maybe this is why we need to dance, at least a little.

What kind of life is it live without having a lust for everything wild?
You know?
Or what kind of life do you have if you are too afraid to be live and feel alive?
Could you imagine that?

Imagine that the lights are always perfect and bright and the dance you dance is done to enjoy every minute of every song.
Imagine two bodies shaking together.
The summer’s heat comes with a sexual intention to make you sweat, —and all of this is done in conjunction with the soul’s need to celebrate the lust for touch. All of this is for the thrill of making someone achieve an extasy that makes their eyes roll back in their head as they quiver with satisfaction.
Ah, the séance . . .
You do this the only way you know how, with all your heart and with all you have.
You cannot hold back. You have to give this everything you have because suddenly the art of two people has been perfected by a connection that cannot be denied and nor can this ever be duplicated . . .

What does it mean to lose to this?
Lose yourself. What a concept!

And by lose, I mean you find the rightfulness and the freedom to abandon yourself and surrender your trembling doubts of self-destruction. All else is remarkably unimportant.

It’s all a dance, I say.
But trust me, the music can be wild and even if the dance floor is plentiful, there is only one true body that can make your soul electric enough that your eyes can see the stars.

Worship this.
Love this.
Live for this.
Never stop

And I?
I will do as follows:
Enter my soul’s courtyard with a magical séance of foreplay; and yes, I will make this so hot that I can make my entrance an easy glide, as if to enter her, as if to push between the seas that rest behind those sweet rose petal gates, which lead to an opening that runs deep inside the love of my life.
I want to be that one.

I swear, there should be no such thing as taboo.
Why limit ourselves?

Let nothing stop you.
Let the rainy nights be an idea to drive off to an empty parking lot somewhere. Let this be the preface to a moment and find yourself a spot beneath a streetlamp in the middle of the empty spaces.
Let the bluish tint shine across her naked body.
Let the heavy rain weep down the windshield.
See her. Notice everything.
Detail this in your mind so that there will lonely thought for the rest of your life.

Find this parking lot in the middle of a rainy night—or make it, like, say, a commuter parking lot.
Let this be somewhere by the railroad.
Let the sound of heavy raindrops remark like a trillion soldiers, falling like suicidal angels that land without parachutes and splash on the roof of the car.

Let the anger from the rain be the soundtrack.
Be fascinated.
Be taken by the expression on her face.
Be fascinated by the way her skin appears from the shafts of softly beaming light from that comes from the streetlamp.
Enjoy the mixture of darkness and dim light and be as naked as you can, —let nothing separate your skin.
Nothing.

Be amazed by the way the bluish hue dimly shines across her nipples.
Look at her.
See her.
Be wild and crazed as ever, as if to be hungrier than a hunter or wilder than a savage.
Look at her like a predator would look before consuming their prey
Taste everything and sip every drop.

There is only one person that you can do this with.
There is only one person who can match such perfection.
This is love’s trinity, in the name of the Mind, and of the Body, and of the Soul
(Amen)

And I?
I want to be that one?
I want to be the one who can touch her secrets and make her fantasies outshine the glares of a hurtful and unforgiving past.

Am I sane?
No.
Am I crazy?
No.
But I want to be.

I want to dance in the middle of some night spot in the city.
I want to work her body to a sweaty craze so that the minute I find a place, I can grab her without delay.
I can move into her like a piston as it charges through a cylinder.

I want to be like no one else.
I want to be that one for just one person.
Just one.

I want to learn how to let go, to celebrate, and while I cannot say that my dancing skills are at an ultimate level—I want to grab her so close and so tight that none of this matters.
I want to be that one who undresses perfectly, without  fear, or without worrying if I am better, bigger or smaller, or if I am physically fit and desirable enough

I want to be “that one” for someone.
and I want “someone” to see me as their “one”
as in one and only.

If it is true that man holds the key to the universe; then I heartily believe that woman is the cylinder to which that key turns.

There are billions of keys out there and billions of cylinders.
But only one key will fit perfectly.
And that’s the one I want to be.

I wonder what the weather will be like tonight.
I wonder when the next midnight rainstorm will be.
I wonder where I’ll be.

You know?