I dream of being a wild woman. Of dancing late into the night upon a table in a smoky bar, my raven hair swirling about my body as the music pounds a dizzying staccato that races into my heart with the velocity of a thousand stars falling through the Milky Way.

I dream of throwing back a Vodka, my neck stretched long to receive the icy coolness of its elixir searing my heat-parched throat, my eyes closed, my long nails blood red against the fingerprint smudged glass that I pound upon the table when it is empty. I yell Ola! to a room filled with drunken laughter and bawdy jokes and I am consumed by the night lifting off into a galaxy of indescribable pleasures exploding into the night.

I dream of bodies entwined, passionately consuming one another, skin stretched taut against the first rays of dawn bursting through the night, of lovers unnamed, of life coursing through my body in a mind-blowing ecstasy of passion burning away the dark.

And then, I awaken and I laugh and shake my head and think, wow, what a night!

And I arise from my bed to enter my day, the wild woman of my dreams asleep once more, waiting for the dark to return so she can have her way with my psyche.

She is there. That wild woman. The one who throws off convention without a batting of her glitter tinged eyelashes. The one who swears like a sailor and says whatever she wants without caring who she provokes, be it state or rock star or whoever else turns up at the exquisite party that is her life.

She is there. That wild woman. The one who doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks about who she is or what she’s doing. The one who consumes life without regard for tomorrow. The one who loves with all her body, never holding back, never giving up on feeling, knowing, expressing the life force within her.

She is there.

And she is here, in my surrender to the day. She is here in my letting go of the night. In my awakening.

She calls to me to throw myself into my creative being. To smear colour drenched paint upon a canvas and use every fibre of my body to make its up, to streak it and move it and create a tapestry of life worth living.

She calls to me to write the night out upon the page, to colour in the darkness with the vibrant hues of her knowing we are not meant to be consumed by life, we are meant to consume it. To suck it dry of every last breath, to eat up every succulent morsel, to savour every sun-drenched moment and live like wild women and men in the light of living each moment in the utter rapture of this moment right now passing by.

This is your life, the wild woman of my dreams says from the smoky recesses of her lair where she is holed up with the likes of Henry Miller and Anais Nin, partying late into the night, the heat of their words  searing her mind where she lays exposed, arms flung wide, back arched along the seductive lure of the Tropic of Cancer. Waiting. Willing. Eager to receive. Eager to give. Eager to capture and consume this one wild and passionate life for all she’s worth.

I am awake now. Day has broken and I leap from my bed, eager to embrace the unexpected that explode all around me like fireworks bursting in the night. I am awake now.