She was fleshed in radiance last night, all light-blinded and fully-displayed. Today, she begins the descent into shadow, into letting go. I link my arm through her aged white skin and move toward the dark.
The spiral continues round and round again. The holy wild of me shaking out my hair and pulling me, dancing me, loving me round the fire. The forever flame, haunting me back into my own skin.
I ache today, finding myself still wondering if I am loved. And, if love is larger than performance; if love is in fact a verb that flows and engages, greets and surrounds endlessly … endlessly … endlessly.
This unrelenting pain must be the other side of love, the dark side of the moon that carries me through the shadowy descent, and back to the wilderness of my child-self; the self that has never forgotten love, creativity, innocence, bravery, intuition, and bliss.
… there comes a day when they realize that they are loved. No performance is necessary, no mask. Their soul can be as angry as she is, as spiteful as she is, as infantile as she is, as sweet and coy and playful as she is, and still be assured of the love of another human being. No judgment, no blame. No longer attempting to be anything they are not, they love and are loved.