And I walk with my eyes shut, feeling the way. I write and pray, pray and write. I have no idea what's getting out of me anymore. I just write. I try to capture in words the essence of feelings and faith. The food of gods. Feelings and faith.
I don't know where this is going. I am guided by my sense of touch. I let my mind struggle with the riddle of plot non-stop, asking questions, trying to piece together scenes, information, characters, reactions. My other part does nothing of the sort. It opens the trapdoor in the attic, extends its arm in the Collective, grabs and brings down material. It pulls down whatever it can get its fingers on. It downloads feelings, colours, fleeting images, landscapes, sounds, sensations. It's like watching a chimera giving birth. I have no idea what that writhing bundle of colours that I pulled out is. I gently but firmly push my fingers in the ripples of colour, amongst feathers, fur, scales, and I push and pull, smooth out and unfold. The process is like an origami for a dragon tamer or a mythology hero. I have no idea what I am doing anymore, I just work with my fingers involving my rational thinking as little as possible. The rational part comes in later on, when I need to give the text a more accessible form.
When God made us to their image, we were made capable of creation. Male and female is merely another stupid restriction of this plane. Nothing more or less.