On writing and love

In writing, I am the same way I am in love, I don't know the rules and the customs, I just do it. In writing like in love, I never got training, education, initiation, I am simply engrossed by it, as though I am one with it and not merely experiencing or practicing it. In writing like in love, I dive deep, blindly, engulfed by the highs of self expression, creation, existence. In writing like in love, I'm the expert and the newbie, I'm the know it all and the total ignorant. In writing, like in love, I like it straightforward, and very simple. In writing like in love, I don't slow down for breaks, I am fully consumed by it. 

I keep telling close friends about the book, perhaps deep down hoping someone would tell me not to write it, but they never do, they're quite excited about it. I don't think they wish for me to write the book as much as they wish for me to keep loving, to keep on being and experiencing life in the intense and wild ways that I do it, like the mad person they know me to be. 

In writing like in love, I know it was born with me, and that it was never sought out after on the outside. I like my words same way I like my love making; raw, open, revealing, sensitive, vulnerable, ecstatic, wild, pure, naked, simple, limitless, meditative, passionate, sweet, real, tender. 

I'm brought back to a memory of my 8 years old self having just finished reading my first short story to my parents, and having received their feedback before they even uttered a word, simply with their faces. Were they happy about my writing, or were they loving me. Was it the words, or was it my existence. Was it my creation, or was it creation itself.It didn't matter after that day, I never sought validation since, I knew it in my heart that I was loved, and that I was a writer, and that these two are interwoven into my system, in my being, in the air that I breathe, in the very space that I take.

What happened to my writing throughout my life though was the same that happened to my love, it got interfered with, interrupted. People stopped my flow, their expectations of me did, their framing, their boxes, their agendas, their plans for me, their actions, their motives, their disrupted ways of doing relationships, their distorted ideas of love. I didn't experience the artist's block for lack of ways of expression, but from interrupted love. 

To write is to unchain myself, to write is to be love without a lover. In writing I am the same way I am in loving, I don't need an audience for my writings, like I don't need a recipient for my love. My writing is my tool for my love, my love is the backbone for my writing. 

I've been once advised to remove myself from my writing, to use my emotions to create a content that's separate from me. Could I write stories again, perhaps I can. Do I want to do it, maybe not just yet. Perhaps my need for telling the story of my heart, the truth unaltered, is currently much greater than the need to write for the sake of writing itself. 

In love, like in writing, I am merely a medium; love and writing manifest themselves through me. 

My favorite way of loving is dissolving totally into it, until there is nothing left of me, but love itself. In writing, I am the say way I am in love.