Delving

I wrote something today. When I was done, I realized how much pleasure I’d felt during it. I thought about how I’d crafted sentences, rolling the words through my fingers, the ideas like paint I needed to smear on a screen. A very sensual, driving process.

Then I realized how much the remembrance of that visceral feeling of writing reminds me of drawing. I love to draw with charcoal. Because it feels like sculpture. I love to rub my hands into the paper, creating figures with depth and light.

Words and pencils and shapes and thoughts all create a form. Between the brain and the hands, I make something. And this is satisfying.

Really, it's all very much the same to me as sex.