The Lovely Unrest

There’s a certain seduction to a bedroom that I’ve never cared to resist. The secrets it keeps, the inhibitions it undoes, and all those lovely liberties we allow ourselves on the other side of a closed door.

I have a fondness for beautifully organized chaos, conversations that refuse to end when we say goodnight, wild and irreverent places, and an enduring weakness for the improbable.  Particularly those things that seem to have wandered out of another decade, carrying secrets they have no intention of ever telling.

Reality has its charms, though I’ve never been inclined to surrender myself to it entirely.

There is something rather curious about the expectation that everything beautiful ought to be understood.  At times there have been things that I have fallen in love with without knowing why, places I ache to revisit though I can scarcely recall what first endeared them to me, and peculiar little fascinations for which I have never troubled myself to find an explanation. I suppose even my curiosity has its wayward little affairs, pursuing some things relentlessly while allowing others to remain blissfully unaware. 

My goodness, I am quite at odds with myself!

Perhaps that is among the most intoxicating pleasures of being a woman. The freedom to posses a voluptuous interior world without feeling obliged to provide herself with a map.

And yet again, I have an affection for the duality of structure. For the delicious contradiction of knowing exactly what I want while remaining willingly vulnerable to the unexpected.

So, I have no desire to tame all that I encounter.  

And I must admit, I have always found something rather enchanting about things that refuse to behave, even from beyond the grave.

Which brings me to my beloved Embedded.

There is something beguiling about the purity of white cotton. I would never attempt to completely unravel her innocence.  Though I confess, I rather enjoy acquainting her with the bewitching come-hither pleasures of color.

I dye every piece by hand, gently coaxing colors into one another, encouraging the outcome while leaving room for rebellion, and occasionally finding that what I hadn’t planned is much more wickedly pleasing than what I had hoped for.

Much of what I’m trying to create begins somewhere else entirely. A place I’ve wandered through. Someone I’ve known. A chance encounter, a memory that should have only belonged to yesterday, yet something of it insists on remaining, like a perfume whose wearer has long since departed.

I cannot always explain why certain things take such exquisite possession of me.  Perhaps some things simply prefer to haunt us.

And I suppose I’ve never been content to let everything I’ve loved rest peacefully in the past, either.

And perhaps somewhere between what I remember and what someone else recognizes, there is a peculiar kindredness.

What I’ve breathed into life might enter into rooms I’ll never see, beneath the weight of people and stories I’ll never know, where they will make memories entirely their own.

And what happens between those sheets is, of course, blushingly none of my business.

Though I rather hope, for your wild and tender sake, they become accomplices to something wonderfully indecent.

After all, not everything that stirs after dark is something to fear.

Unabashedly,

Stephanie