I crave real. My soul is allergic to fake.
I reverberate on octaves of genuine connections. Please spare me the chit-chat unless you are warming up to dive deeper.
My heart beats an irregular thump as it is cushioned by cloud waves. The sea is the saline that rinses through my tears.
I need such an epic quota of divine substance, therefore, I am nature and require sunlight and rain.
My moods dance along an elliptical sequence of quiet and solitude and yet a desire so strong to be with people, I find myself experiencing a mystical whiplash if I don’t honor these cravings.
It is my liquid cup of warmth and the bittersweet essence of dark chocolate. My sustenance is a steady filter of birdsong and listening to the growth and patterns of vibrating chartreuse-ness of moss.
My imagination is a watercolor and the keyboard of a song. The trees echo a symphony and the mountains can be the drums.
The very exchange of eye contact permeates my soul even before words are spoken; there’s a hum and colors begin to flow.
Yes, I crave and need real.
No longer am I ashamed.