What makes your heart sing?

‘What makes your heart sing?’
‘Oh, that’s easy, I answered making a silly face. How long do you have? Let me grab my cup of coffee.’

I crash on my couch, lift my legs on the little puff in front of me, I hold the mug in my hands and…

‘Let’s put it like this. I don’t sing but if I were…
That would be my body! This sweet delicious body, round and plumpy, so perfect beyond my perfection obsessed mind.
A nice dress makes me sing, crazy shoes, sparkling jewelry, a joyful dog, a nasty cat, kids asking me for hugs, the smell of a freshly printed book, the cardamom spice in my morning coffee, a good red rich wine. Orgasms make me sing. All of them, all kinds of orgasms.
It’s strange, I know. Look, I have this stone, a black Obsidian touch stone. I bought it in Toulouse, with an undeniable urge. I just knew I had to have it. It’s flat, slightly curved at the center. I hold it in my hands every time I’m listening to calls or I watch videos. It has this deep mysterious reflection where you could rest your galloping thoughts. They get lost in the shimmer of its eye.

It’s heavy in my palms. And I adore it. It asks of me to acknowledge its presence. And soft. And it glides. I can flip it over and over. It sometimes slips from between my hands and demands me to catch it before it lands. It’s like a deliverance to rest my thumb in the middle and spin it. It’s hard, it’s solid, it’s cold and refreshing. Like an oasis of rest and peace in my hands when stuff gets too intense.

This is a magic stone. it keeps me in my body. It reminds me of the sensorial pleasures of the body. The luscious pleasure of caressing, of touching, of sensing. My body adores this! I love it too!

I’ve always had this urge of touching things, of perceiving the energies transposed in textures. And I always made it wrong. Like I were some kind of a freak or something.

Well, what if being a freak is not a bad thing? I’m quite a cute freak I’d say. A different one!

Did you know that all of my paintings are made for the touch? Yes, I make love to them. I love them with my hands and fingers. It turns me on to dip my fingers into the colours and spread them on the canvas… longing, waiting, stretching, moaning, spanking, moulding, scratching my palms, with paint crawling under my nails, cutting shapes in the thick layers of sensations, resting, vibrating with the waves of creation demanding to be liberated on the white stretched cotton. An orgasm of senses… ‘

So… yes, what makes your heart sing?

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