beauty and the beast, beautiful woman kissing a monster

Pleasure is the scintillating zap of aliveness melting into your cells, causing you to momentarily disengage from your brain, with the reminder that you were born for bliss and not to suffer shame or guilt or pain. Pleasure is there to remind you: you were born to transcend your human limitations not to be trapped by them.

Pleasure is the sum of all of your superpowers coming together like a UN summit, validating your unique bliss on planet Earth and celebrating what your body is built for.

Pleasure is not about escapism; it’s about realism. Click To Tweet

Pleasure is more than your identity, your education, your intelligence, your ratings, your scores, your likes, your plans, your memory, your speculations, your opinions, your do-gooding and go-getting, your positive affirmations and your negative negations. It’s more than your need to be seen and your need for anonymity. It’s greater than your tribe, your vibe and your automobile. It’s greater than the broods you birthed, the followers you’ve reigned, and the likes you’ve garnered.

Pleasure is your soul’s dance in human form. Pure joy.

Pleasure is a river. You don’t control it. It cascades through the landscape of your structures, and resets the belief that you need to be in control to feel safe. It gives you the ammo to know that there’s more to being alive than coping, than getting through the day. It reminds you that there’s much more than achieving, than seeking, than relentlessly being everything you’ve learned to be. It reminds you there’s more to being alive than capitulating action plans, or scheming booby traps to eradicate the derelicts of your mind. It’s the solvent for all of your conflicting notions of shoulds and shouldn’ts. It’s the eradicator of your shame. Pleasure is your agent, your private eye, your chaperone to the ultimate sense of deservingness that you deserve.

Pleasure is the northern lights of your psyche dancing across the sky, always changing and transforming the moment. Just like the northern lights need a cold clear sky to appear, you need to unplug your brain and cease from doing things to feel pleasure.

Pleasure unplugs you from doing and plugs you into being.

Pleasure doesn’t require spreadsheets, punch cards, metro cards, fast tracks, bus passes, passports, driver’s licenses, Social Security Numbers, names, roles, titles, addresses, passwords, IP addresses, codes, programs, processes, or workshops.

The only operating system that’s required in pleasure is to show up, pay attention and feel.

Pleasure trumps your agendas, your diaries, your measuring devices, your teachings, your good girl or bad boy syndrome, your purposeful purpose, your cramping cravings, your money mongering, or your need to quell antsy pants. Pleasure trumps your mother’s undying need to protect you and your father’s undying need to provide something worthy.

Pleasure brings you back to you. The unabridged version. The un-edited version. The unapologetic version. The un-spread-thin version. The unscattered version. The ‘of course’ version. The pure version.

Pleasure is the glue between your soul’s pure expression and your body’s pure expression.

Pleasure is the key to the deadbolt on your repression.

Yet once upon a time…

The misdemeanors of pleasure got a bad rap. The construed, contorted notions that got jacked up by shame, by the needy notions of ‘not enough’ and the squealing voices of ‘not lovable.’ People would escape to pleasure to gain a sense of redemption. To grasp at validation that they were or are or have been worth something. People scrambled like cockroaches to seek pleasure so they could fill an empty hole. A parched well. Or a dark tunnel. People fled in numbers to seek out pleasure by force, by consumption, by trade, by payment, by credit, by favor… and they forgot. Like a forbidden midnight snack, they’d march towards the chambers of pleasure in zombie-like sleepwalks, just wanting and longing to be filled. Instead of their veins being infused with gratitude for pleasure, it validated their addictive craving for more. Because they were dead inside.

When really it was there all along. Pleasure was living and breathing inside their cells.

But in their forgetfulness, they chased pleasure like a quick fix, like a hit of heroin, or a jolt of Jack Daniels. Sexual pleasure was consumed instead of engaged. It was grabbed at for a rush, an endorphin rush, and forced like a compulsion into very fleeting moments of overindulged stimulation. It was abused instead of cherished. It was made insatiable instead of satiating. It was mauled, instead of savored.

If only they would breathe deep and hear their heart’s longing, then every meeting with pleasure would be an act of initiation, coming closer to something more divine, more saturating than anything they had known before.

Then they would cherish pleasure. They would revel in it.

And they would know that pleasure is their lifeline to feeling alive, fulfilled and whole.

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