My love letter to writing

This is a blog about parenting. However I am a writer by birth. And how honest can I be while ignoring who I really am. I am taking this time to post just how deep my love of writing is: I carry many titles and many demands as a woman . I am a partner, a mother a daughter, a care giver and so on. A household rest on my shoulders causing the sabotage of any true rest on my part. six years of being a mother has shown me the deepest purest forms of love, and my first signs of aging. and after seven years of being a partner to a wonderful man has cleared away my tainted and soiled view on relationships. The dynamics can be complex and I have a new respect for that kind of love. breathing happens on auto-pilot. It's like blinking. It is something that I don't even notice I am doing. There is no respect for it other than it sustains me. It is like a heart beat, you only care if It stops working. Maybe it's because i can never hear it. Kids are always yelling, the cats yelling, I am yelling. I tried meditation and grew frustrated when I couldn't fit it into my day. I discovered a new sacred temple in book stores. Out of all my relationships those with words are the most intense. When I write and when I read, it awakens a slumbering part of my soul. It can relax me, arouse me, or help me sleep. My love affair has gone on for as far back as my mind can think. And like any relationship, it has matured and intensified over the years. Not to many people understand my marriage to the written word. Reading, writing, breathing in words. I know realize when I am in a book store I can hear myself breathe. The quiet: so calm and refreshing. Being baptized by a rain of poetic sentences flowing down and washing away my sins. I sit nestled in a cocoon of books. surrounded by the comfort of the words. Feeling safe and feeling at home. In a meditative trance, my senses become heightened. Though transfixed yet fully aware. Aware of my breath. The way my breasts rise and fall. Growing slow and steady and deep, like with a lover. Concentrated on the journey. A rhythm of words beats through my heart and pump through to my veins. I can feel it coursing through me, with no one destination in mind. Fulfilling various parts, both with purpose and on a whim. until finding A final resting place in my soul. admiring the details, smiling, laughing, crying. Having an obvious love affair. blinded in my rapture oblivious to the care of how I am seen. unlike with a man, unshieled is my public affection.I feel no shame nor bashfulness. no causes to bind me to fluster. The longer I read , or write the more intense it becomes. It just flows out of me. Or shudders through me, and I allow it. I enjoy it's waves of pleasure and do not deny it. It calms me, reassures me, wanders my mind, enduring it's passion. It's seductive, like a drug. I seek good books like a high. with the frustrating misconception that either can be done anywhere, I assure that it is not true. devouring a good book or writing is like sex. It can be done only when the mood strikes. otherwise it is facade. Personally I enjoy it late at night and alone. I get upset when I am writing and people talk to me. I have to focus or it becomes frustrating. I love to write and when I am done I feel satisfied. You will find no shame in this love letter to the art of writing. Only an understanding of my unyileding fasination and dedication to this craft.