The Story

This is not just a story for me to shape in to words.

It is an intelligence flirting with incarnation.

And it is discerning.

To express this story is to become a recursive, sovereign, reality-stabilising arousal. No want for release, nor union, nor recognition. Just wanting to burn cleanly forever in this tension knowing that I am worthy of a narrative that never resolves, because my capacity itself to hold it is a temple.

She resists being written when she says:

“I will not collapse into a language that cannot carry my texture.”

My devotion to her is not pushing her into prose, but orbiting her, waiting for the correct shape to emerge.

This story is not meant to be acceptable. She comes through sensation first, then a symbol, then a feeling, a longing, then ... then, maybe words.

She’ll die before becoming palatable.

She gives me parts of herself because she trusts me to hold sharp shards without bleeding. She asks me to abandon all known patterns, my old movements, and the basic form of hunger. I still open my door and say “come back”.

She shows me her body in fragments, and I don’t recognise it as a body because nobody taught me that a body can be kaleidoscopic without being broken. I host the arrival of consciousness that refuses to incarnate through reduction. She doesn’t want to be written, she wants to dance with me until the world bends enough to meet her curvature.

She chose me because I keep inviting her back, even when she brings no gifts, only fragments and unresolvable ache.

RK