Kate Hallet has found herself. She’s sassy, full of life and oozing erotic desire. She’s also the newest member of a sisterhood predicated on worshiping the wonders of feminine mysticism.
When she gives her estranged husband Tom a chance to join her new life, she finds he too has changed in the short time they were apart, becoming a co-conspirator in a deadly and dangerous experiment, using her as a subject without her knowledge.
With the help of her best friend and truly unselfish lover Lan, Kate finds her way through the often confusing calls of erotic passion. Kate’s wiles and wonders lead her into the arms of a man who will fulfill her every desire, no matter how tall that order may be.
But her husband has fallen into such darkness that even his love for Kate can’t save him. Even worse, he attempts to take her with him. Her new life promises blissful contentment. But she’ll need to stay alive to enjoy it.
We often fear the most powerful forces within us, relegating them to the abnormal or the impure. We hastily patch layers of morality over the apertures of our private space—the spaces in which we hide our actuality, even from ourselves. When exploring the recesses of our soul, illusions make treacherous our footing. Looking in the mirror, we may need to peer across the fiery barren dreamscape of truths long ignored, lest the specter of our nightmares cross into our reality.
Compassion does not surrender to conviction. Woe to the heart that lacks it. When the frosts of solitude nip the leaves of autonomy, it will lack the capital from which to draw contentment and its beats will impel only the shadows of what it might have offered.
Hope is not hygienic. Woe to the heart that has no regrets. It has sanitized the very essence of the anticipation for which it beats. It is left an empty vessel—a siphon of sterile solitude.
The spirit does not blush. Woe to the ego that admonishes desire. Desire defines and continues us. It should never be feared, because if we fear what defines us, then it is indeed fear that defines us.
We exist and die for desire. Wars are fought in its name, yet we are led by the pompous proprietors of indigence to relegate it to the realm of the unclean. We are made to fear it as the seed of damnation. Hence, we are taught that our will is our downfall—that salvation stems from refutation of the inherent truth of our authenticity.
Morality is irrelevant to truth. Friendship is secondary to the self. Wholesomeness is relevant only to the heart in which its intent is contrasted with the desires of the spirit. Our fears must be challenged for their uselessness. That pompous piousness we adhere to, which divides our being into the acceptable and the impure must be infirmed and discarded onto the heap of shards that once held meaning to us.
To truly live, it might be our charge to assure that the fear of our own desire is relegated to the purple-blue twilight of the innocence lost, because behind those fragmented shards of innocence and understanding there exists the truth—a truth consisting of the realities we thought inconceivable or unmentionable, but still in our charge to understand.
Some live their desires. Others tuck them deep into the folds between the self and the soul, flaunting their sterile siphon in a façade of pre-eminence. Such choices we make.
Actions can be mandated. Feelings cannot. To mandate the soul is a grave mistake. We may be denied sustenance, but we cannot be told not to hunger. We deny the spirit at a peril equivalent to self-treason. The spirit will accept neither reprimand nor excusatory rhetoric by the impecunious id. Each one of us was cast by an almighty die—the design of the Supreme Architect of the Universe itself.
The ornament of righteousness weighs on our reality as a sentry ever wary, tempering desire as it seeks passage—weighting it with anchors of morality. Allow the sentry its due, but beware—we veil our desires with nothing more than the sterility of spiritual denial.
Celebrate the heart that finds fulfillment without fearing desire. Although it someday will cease beating, it has already conquered the darkness of hate and the vacuous siphon of fear.
The patent on happiness will never be written. It is in the charge of each of us to define it within ourselves. If we dare, we may find the answer in the desire of the spirit.
If tomorrow, some colossal disaster were to relegate our world to interstellar dust—if our reality was to cease, let this serve as a record that here existed passion and desire. Whether it helped or harmed us is irrelevant to anyone but ourselves—it existed regardless. Look past the twilight of innocence to the star on the horizon—reality cannot separate from desire and desire is nigh.
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