Waking In Warmth And Bliss

The room is quiet. The sun is warm. The light pushing through the windows and bathing the room in golden light.

The bed is empty.

I'm alone.

I'm used to waking in a certain kind of way. It almost comes on me like a wave and then it's like a shock of cold water and I'm awake, but surprisingly this time it's not like that for me and instead is just this subtle kind of warmth. This peaceable kind of peace, like... contentment.

So I linger in the bed for a while, embracing the moment and myself within it. Feeling the sheets on my too warm skin and remembering.

It doesn't take long. It doesn't hit me like a wave. I don't remember it in bits and pieces and I'm not left with a new perspective, realizing that I am, in fact, still her and that this whole new life is a dream.

I think I've accepted that now so instead I remember more than just that new perspective and body stuck within an old timeline that is becoming new. Instead I remember it like I lived it which I suppose is true because I did and instead I remember it because it is the truth of me.

I'm her.

The night before last I had the same kind of dream, or at least the same beginning. Living in a fog until I was with the woman I've come to think of as the Baba Yaga and speaking to her while she responded in riddles and then she left me but didn't leave me alone. Wordless figures, undeniably masculine, took me in the night and left a fire on my skin and a desire burning in my belly and that comes to me now, a memory lost in the past but returning to me now and I have to wonder whether that contributed to the cause in some way.

Because I woke in the morning needy and that need led me to fantasy. Taken by every man who had shown the slightest bit of interest in wanting me and then more.

Then kneeling in an alleyway. Then taking another inside his booth. Then letting my enemy take liberties with me and then giving myself to anyone who would have me and only pulling back when it all became too much to bear and I have to wonder whether the need in the night contributed to that in some way.

Because last night I wasn't visited by the figures in shadow. They didn't form solid and they didn't take me, their aggressive masculine desires building a pleasure in me that left me only wanting more and so this morning it almost makes sense that I don't have that same need.

Not to say that I don't have another.

I don't know where and I don't know when but I made a choice, a decision, and it feels like the right one. It's been influenced by her, because I can't deny the truth of the Baba Yaga's words. I'm going to start embracing the joy of being me more.

Or being her.

Or being whatever.

I'm going to start loving the feeling of being a woman and stop being so afraid that I'm being to feminine. I'm going to open myself up and I'm going to learn and I'm going to realize that defining myself by my sexual desires alone is not enough to fulfill me.

I have to love all of myself, in every moment.

And that isn't to say that I won't explore this newfound and burgeoning sexuality. I've had fun and I've no intention of stopping but I'm going to search for more, for the greater.

Loving the tastes of the food I'm eating. Loving making myself pretty, beautiful. The kiss of water on my skin when In shower and the lick of fabric on my skin when I dress and the bounce in my step at all other moments, when I am myself if I am nothing else.

I am going to relish being her even if, as it seems right now, I am doing so all by myself.

Because I wake in an empty bed this morning.

Because, this morning, I wake alone.

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