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literary lust I can't sleep. I can't eat. My mind races. Painting dreams laced with lust. Hope. Hunger.

I want it.

It.

Not sure what it is. But it has a power over me. In its presence, I feel tiny. Tangled. Tortured. True.

In its presence, looming and large, the tears come. And, suddenly, my cheeks are wet with pride and fear and anticipation.

My heart hums and hollers with doubt and desire. Beneath skin that shivers. Even in the most harrowing heat.

What do you want? A wise voice whispers. This time, there is no 'A.'

At first, these words soothe me. I nod. Smile sweetly. But inside me, awareness swells like a summer storm. There are A's. There are always A's.

Acceptance. Approval. Affirmation. Applause. Acclaim.

Because I am wired this way. Like an academic all-star. A resume robot. Wired to believe that if I stay up late enough and stress sufficiently and study hard, I will ace this.

But I know this time is different. Tomorrow is not an exam. It is just another day. A day where I will wake up. And walk. And wander into a big store. And approach a shelf. And pull a book from it.

My book.

The one I wrote. In between it all. Between leaving the law and raising babies and saying goodbye to Dad. Between things that challenged me and carried me and crushed me. Between things that conspired to make me Me.

To bring me here.

And I know it. Now. Ahead of time. Holding that book? My creation? The done deal? It will feel better than any A I've ever received.

So why isn't that enough? Why isn't this enough?

Why do I lust for more? Why do I always lust for more?

Is this life? Or is this me?

This post was inspired by the Lust topic for Momalom's amazing Five for Ten challenge.

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  • Have you ever lusted for something you weren't able to articulate?
  • Are you constantly striving for more and more and more?

Pretty please. With a big fat cherry on top.

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