A sound too holy to shame

Where does creation come from?
What is the origin of this body, this breath, this being we inhabit?
We are taught biology as if it were enough, as if reproduction were a mere equation of cells colliding.
But is that truly the full story of human intimacy?

They call it breeding.
But we, humans, we have evolved beyond the mere instinct to populate.
We crave connection, not compulsion.
In intimacy, we don’t just replicate, we remember.
We bloom, we dissolve, we transform.
We come alive in ways no textbook can teach.

Yet, tragically, the language of desire has been hijacked.
Reduced to algorithms and screens,
Where bodies are consumed, not understood.
Porn becomes the dictionary for pleasure,
And the sacredness of touch is lost in translation.

But when two bodies meet in truth,
It is not a transaction of desire,
It is a conversation of souls through skin.
It is not just about pleasure, it is about presence.
A chance to witness the beloved,
To understand the vessel that holds their spirit,
To dissolve the illusion of separateness for a brief, eternal moment.

And in that moment,
When a moan escapes not just from the body, but from the soul,
It is not lust.
It is a prayer.
It is not obscene.
It is sacred.

Because for that flicker in time,
There is no “I” or “you.”
Only union. Only love. Only the divine remembering itself.

………….


There is a fire inside the lotus,
not one that burns,
but one that awakens.

It flickers at the base of your spine,
a longing not just for touch,
but for truth.

It is the heat of becoming ,
a wild bloom of breath and blood,
rising with the rhythm of your soul.

And when it reaches your throat,
it opens like thunder,
like a sacred moan escaping the lips
not of the body,
but of the being.

A sound too ancient to name,
too holy to shame.
The echo of the first creation.
The vibration of Shakti remembering herself.

This fire is not for consuming,
but for illuminating
the temple within.

Let your desire melt into devotion,
let your ache become an offering.
Let your voice be unchained
by silence that feared to feel.

And in that sacred stillness,
let the flame and the flower
moan, open, and dance
as one.

 

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