that feeling of completeness last night, the moment when I take the microphone in my hand, and direct all my senses toward the piano, and her sitting there, playing with me, for me. Breathe. Close my eyes. Wait for the impulse in myself, and following it, the first words of the song fetching my soul and showing it; look, this is my story, this is me. Letting myself float on the rythm, securely, like I float in the sea.
when everything else feels like dying now, when I know with certainty that something in me is dying all the time. The future scares me, the past scares me, the violence of the changes in my body from the treatments certainly scares the hell out of me, as does the now faltering income. The neverending continuence of pain, discomfort: they rip me apart, piece by piece. No hope. More to come, always.
when the nights are spent more often looking at my own hand and watching the skin grow old. when dreams are nightmares and darkness.
Singing practise earlier yesterday: I had goosebumps on my arms throughout the song, over and over, from the pure joy of it. The letting go in my voice, the contact flowing free between us. Making music. Being me, no more, no less.
Please, please, Universe, let me have more of that. If I never get peace from the pain, at least let me have that. I beg from the deepest in me: let me have that.