I feel as slippery as a moth, as a particle slipping in and out of the universe, the intercourse of existences.
I watched a beetle climb up the wall and thought of these things. I didn't want to kill it. My room had almost ceased being indoors. It felt alive, wet, luscious. The paint on the walls sweated as much as I did in the humidity. I felt sub-human. Being alone in that room made me feel primitive in a seductive way. I forgot everything I had learned there. It was pure.
Sometimes I would wander out at noon or midnight. At noon, the heat was like a bath. Everything smelled. The scent from the soil and the plants that grew in it, the heat that came off the vegetation and the bushes that were as warm as genitals, I wondered why anyone would ever make love indoors. The thought of twigs getting stuck in my hair and dirt on my belly seemed erotic. It was more brutal here, more honest, more human. These things seemed quintessential to sex. I thought that for that reason, sex was pure, because it is who we are. Innocence is lost when we deviate from that, when we are something else, dishonest, lying, manipulative, etc. It is never the act itself, it was the thought behind it. Calling any particular act a sin seemed to arbitrary. I could easily do anything and still remain the same. There was no huge transformation in myself when I first had premarital sex, tried drugs, stole something, etc. The potential exists everywhere. So I redefined innocence, make it active, obtainable, I redefined religion. I made it honest- but also honest about the limitations of truth.
I felt the time passing as I rested. I felt alive each time the wind touched me, light as breath, in the dampness. I could feel my blood moving everywhere, my pulse, my circulation, my life. This life felt fresh now, new, and I laughed, because I knew something was blooming.