Place of Contentment ( my keyboard)

It is my writing, which takes me to this place I find myself today, separate from the bitter cold and snow here in New York, a place other than home, from beneath a cloud of unknowing to copious amounts of light, from opening to closure, recognizing the therapeutic balm incensed in my keyboard. I find myself wanting to stay here the minute I arrive. Stay here, seated and perched at my computer, where my keyboard takes me anywhere I wish to wander.

     Here, I fly to Paris, sip wine in Tuscany, attend mass in Rome, skinny dip on the French Riviera, wrap myself in a torrid love affair in Spain, allowing the music of the sin to sweep through me. Nebulous silence of love, sheets lingering with the forbidden scent of human skin, exuding happiness he leans over hungrily, in a wave of boldness just to get closer to the hunger of my mouth, to my unabashed feminine scent. Like a drowning man I pull him closer to me, until he melts, pressing into me, passion searing through flesh until it scorches my palm, my hand resting on the dampness of his back to ease my fire. 

Yes, it is my writing that brings me to these far away places, enchanting mid life escapades, chance meeting with total strangers. It is my writing that breathes warmth into me on this rather brisk January morning. Apprehension plucks at my fingertips....

(I think I have writer's cramp. If there is such a cause to be called, then I absolutely have it! My fingers churn in twisted spasm as words spill faster than my stemmed fingertips can type. I file my life neatly away back into the pages of my journal......until this blessed curse of spasm releases from my fingertips)