Desire Is Not a Goal — It’s a Direction

Issue Fifteen: What is your body telling you?

For a long time, I thought desire was supposed to be obvious.

That you knew what — or who — you wanted.

That desire announced itself clearly: lightning bolt, butterflies, fantasy, longing — neatly labeled and self-explanatory.

But the truth is, desire is rarely that tidy.

It doesn’t always arrive with certainty.

Sometimes it arrives as unease.

As exhaustion.

As tension you can’t name.

As the impulse to step back —

or the quiet ache to move closer.

For many people, desire isn’t a loud yes.

It begins as something far more subtle —

a leaning.

I used to believe desire was a destination —

a conclusion, a decision.

Then I learned:

Desire is not a goal — it’s a direction.

And the body is the compass.

Learning to listen changed everything for me.

Neuroscience shows that the body responds to experience microseconds before the mind creates meaning — sensation comes first, interpretation second.

Sensation is honest — interpretation is learned.

Tightening, softening, reaching, retreating — these are signals, not verdicts.

Listening to desire doesn’t mean obeying every impulse; it means being curious about what the body is trying to protect, reveal, or remember.

When I stopped thinking about what I desired — or should desire —

and started paying attention to my body:

the tightness in the jaw,

the heaviness behind the eyes,

the breath that shortened when I said yes (but wanted to say no),

or the soft expansion that came when something felt right —

my relationship with desire shifted.

Sometimes desire speaks boldly — a rush of heat, excitement, imagery, fantasy.

And sometimes, it begins as a whisper:

The urge to close the laptop and stretch your spine.

The pull toward a particular environment, person, or activity —

for reasons your mind can’t yet articulate.

And once I trusted those whispers —

in love, in intimacy, in creative work, in professional connections —

everything in my life became more aligned, more alive, and more fulfilling.

When we don’t listen, desire doesn’t disappear — it adapts.

It retreats, contracts, or finds more insistent ways to be heard.

But when we learn how to listen — truly listening —

Desire becomes a guide, not a problem.

It might be the thrill you feel in your gut when you return to a recurring fantasy — even the taboo ones.

Instead of judging it, get curious: is it novelty your system longs for? Or visibility? Or perhaps something more elusive: mischief, stillness, devotion — freedom?

When we allow desire to guide, not demand,

it leads us not just to pleasure —

but to truth, integrity, authenticity, and connection.

Often, the the most fulfilling kind of intimacy we can cultivate —

with another and with ourselves —

is shaped by this kind of listening.

So as the year draws to a close,

perhaps the invitation is simple:

Not to ask, “What should I want?”

but “What part of me is quietly asking to be heard?”

And “What is my body trying to communicate with me?”

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A Gift — A Poem

This is a poem I wrote about a kind of intimacy that is unscripted, attuned, and deeply embodied.

Intimacy has infinite dialects.

This is simply one of them.

Consider it a gift — a symbol of what becomes possible

when we trust desire as a guide rather than a destination.

The Temple of Love

At the threshold of the temple we built between us

thoughts tug their chains

like restless dogs.

Past and future—

two blind dragons—

circle outside the walls,

unwelcome in this holy place.

The clocks lie still,

their hands curled like dead serpents

against the stone.

Inside,

orchid-breath drifts between us.

Your skin,

a page from the book of creation,

turns beneath my fingertips.

Each kiss—

a seal without beginning or end—

pressed upon my soul.

Our breathing rings like bells,

shaking the body’s walls.

Upon the altar of our love,

words hang crucified in silence.

Only pleasure remains,

the sacred tongue

by which devotion speaks:

a syllable trembling at your side,

a question curved in your neck,

an answer surging upward

from the fever in my flesh.

Our joined heartbeat—

an endless dance—

silences the world’s delirium.

Every sigh a hymn of longing,

every shiver a prostration

to the nameless god

who has taken residence

in our skin, our pulse.

Nakedness is the vestment

of this priesthood—

woven of breath and sacred hunger,

unscorched by any hellfire.

Beyond the door,

the world still cries,

but here in the temple

we pray in the oldest language of creation,

in a silence that once thundered

on the shore of nothingness

before the world was born.