I was rummaging through some of my old writing in search for motivation (and, I have to admit, to distract myself from my piled up math assignments) and I stumbled across this:
I feel that my womb does not rest in the average place which is to say somewhere in my abdomen but instead it lives in my head and stretches down my throat and arms to my fingertips. This womb is more than gently used and I am the bearer of a plethora of thought-children, some born in solitude and others in multitudes, and most all from different donors whose seed was taken in by many different vessels of which the ears and eyes have the highest count.
I am by no means a stellar mother, no, many of my thoughtlets have withered with neglect and malnourishment and whichever ones began to flourish were quickly dug up and preserved and never will they grow. The ones birthed from fingertips and graphite die the fastest in violent smudges.
If I were to say which ones have most succeeded and received the nourishment they needed to become robust they would be a select few that have breeched my lips. Those ones always leave the nest quickly as they move into foreign ears and are carried to distant places to mingle with other thoughtlets. I do wish I could see those ones more often.
The mourning song of a train whistle has just thrust its way into my womb, but that will surely only produce a stillborn, as it has done many times before.
I could turn to contraception and stop the mangling of these innocent muselings but I am selfish. I do not want to walk blindfolded with earplugs stuffed deep and ice packs on my skin to numb sensations, tissues stuffed permanently into nostrils sensitive to sensational scents. I take pleasure in widening my eyes to the sensual lights and colors of forests and junkyards, perking my ears to the eroticism of the songs of the rain, breathing in the sultry air of tidepools, and prickling with goose pimples at the caress of soft summer breezes.
I see feel hear smell these things and I know I will never stop. The dead and crumbling children of my mind would not wish for me to stop, I don’t think, for they are a species unique to me and without sensation they would go extinct.
So I implore the world: invade me. Force hideous beauty into my retinas and penetrate my ears with cacophonous harmonies. Infiltrate my nose with putrid aromas and assault my skin with smarting tickles. Please, I beg you, don’t let my womb run dry, don’t let my little thoughtlets fade, because then it is I who might die.
I wrote that more than a year ago. And I miss writing like that, my darwin I do, even though that’s just writing about writing. I think I’ve found the motivation I need (s’pose I should thank my past self or something.)