I watch as he scratches the words onto the paper, he is frenzied in his attempt to capture all the words before they float away from him. Once he is done he leans back against his chair and marvels at the idea, as he always does. ‘Where’ he wonders, ‘do I get my ideas from?’
I can answer this question for him, but it is not a truth for him to know. I come to him in the night, yet he does not know me. I exist as a whisper in his dreams, planting seeds for him to nurture until they blossom into words on a page.
We aren’t meant to linger, there is much work to be done, many people to assist and getting close to any single person creates attachments we must not foster. We all break the rules sometimes though, finding one that we cannot resist and therein lies the secret of the gifted. A spirit of creativity who is captivated by a mortal soul.
He is my reason for rule-breaking. I often leave him until last, so I can take my time and weave not only into his mind but into the fabric of his being. It makes a difference you see. Feeling the words as the drip from his fingertips creates something far more majestic than when he simply tells a story he saw in his mind.
We all break the rules. Perhaps some of us more than others. We are never meant to be present while they are awake. Regardless of the fact they can’t see us. And we definitely aren’t meant to move in the ways of other spirits. Yet I still find myself breathing softly against his neck, watching as his body responds, his back arching as he sighs softly thinking about the delicious ache in his pants.
He stays in his chair, the writing I inspired laid out in front of him, as he unbuttons his trousers and reaches for himself in desperate need of relief. I watch, entranced, rapture rising and flowing through the wisps of my being, oh to be flesh and bone, to be more than a shadow, to touch more than his dreams.