Therapy it seems

I used to think that anything worth reading that came out of me was borne of some sort of pain or confusion or anger. It seemed I made sense trying to make sense of the things around me, if you get my drift.

Now, not so. Sure, it may be more emotive to speak out of turbulence, but I realise that a writer will always write. Even where there's nothing to write about. Like a silent chatterbox. Like how a story teller will always tell stories, even when there isn't much of a plot. Magic is conjured when it needs to be.

So after one of many hiatus (is there are plural for this word?), I'm back. As usual, with nothing much to report on except that no, my life is not in jeopardy. No heartache, no soul searching. No drama.

Just clear blue waters and the gentle lap of waves. Life is rather stable actually, which is  nice. A tad boring? Not at all! I have a dirty little secret to share. Oh, it's so dirty.

Every weekend, I strip down to my undies and I hang upside down. Like a bat. With a bunch of girls.

OK, so the 'secret' is out. I'm a pole dancer.

Love it.

I mean I try. Pole dancing is to my stable soul, what rock climbing was for my turbulent soul.

Cryptic yes. Way to cryptic for shallow me. But how true.
So I opened my mind and my heart, and my legs too.

I can honsetly say that pole is one of the hardest things I've had to do. Both physically as well as mentally. But gees, it's way more therapeutic than a shrink (trust me) but not cheaper. Definitely not cheaper. Who would have thought that skanky leather, lace and string would add up to so much?