The blade is quenched

When only silence reigns
And blade long slept tend
When time passes bitter
And those long dead rise bidden
Does blade and purpose mend

Silence is the edge
Swept clear of tired path
When winter cuts
And storm does wake

So is purpose borne
So is life rebought
In form, for power
Wrought

Pushed aside young light
For you have called
And I have come

Troubled heart

Oh troubled heart
Find love in wings and lies
Burst forth

But spare the song
Loneliness gives counsel most unwise
It drinks from Hope’s well
And says give voice

But experience speaks
Though it sees the road ahead
In treachery born, line by line
It plays the innocent

Oh troubled heart
Cast not your action to inaction
But step forth slowly
The path is long and treacherous

But all journeys worth the pain are

Through the caul

In all my wakings,
 as thought filters past dream,
  I think of lovers past and future.
Of tentative kiss and hopeful touch.
 Of breaking heart and building wave.
  Of empty beds and too cold sheets.
This sprawl, this hope, this life.
 And finally, I think of you.
  And know,
Having known your embrace, your love, your touch
 your dreams,
  your darkness.
And know that I am worthy of love,
 deep and powerful as an undertow,
  having known it with you.

Conversations on conversation

In nearly every conversation I have now, there is the element of fear. I speak about my interests and desires, my past and present. I share my work and my self with anyone that expresses genuine interest.

The fear of rejection, of pushing away those I find alluring are present during. But while we’re talking it’s like a exhibitionist high, or the submissive float. I say whatever I desire, engage in wordplay and generally have fun.

But after, it’s like an adrenaline crash. I shake and fear that what I said, while truthful, will push away someone who could be an amazing relationship but won’t be because I pushed too far, too fast in the tumultuous rush of my Rollercoaster of conversation.

And it’s hard to admit to this fear. I control my self, my emotional reactions. But no matter what I do, this fear is present. It doesn’t stop me. In a way, it pushes me forward. But I can’t seem to shake it. For someone who lives so much in his head, conversation is my way of sharing my world. But after I do, I want nothing more than to have and be held. A physical balm for the emotional tumult.

Thoughts on control

Control of the self is the only true control. Control exherted on others is either force or with the tacit consent of the other.

Force takes many forms. Physical, emotional, economical. These forms of control are illusion. They only exist as long as the recipient allows it. This is not to say that breaking free from force as control is easy. Merely to say that the first step to breaking that control is to realize that you are giving them the power. As long as you remain a prisoner in the mind, freedom from force cannot be.

I know, if someone is beating you, that you feel like this is bullshit. Until your mind is free, you cannot free your body. It’s the hardest part.

You may wonder why someone who writes about BDSM, Inflicting pain and suffering would care. Someone who is into the lifestyle and if you know me personally someone who seems so cold.

The reality is, it is because I am in the life that I care. That I think about control. I don’t enjoy inflicting pain, most days anyway. I enjoy control, but only when control is given. The submissive grants control. It may seem like the Master takes it. But without consent, it is NOT Bdsm, it is abuse. Abuse is betrayal. I am a being of rules. I do not betray.

Pledge

In these days of falls awakening, I reaffirm my pledge to not date vanilla. It was miserable and confusing. Give me your artists, your goths, your philosophers. Give me the ones who want to be tied up, who want to be spanked, who want complicated pleasures. The mainstream is not for me.

Halfway Point

Since we are about halfway through Home, I thought I’d post the links here to those pieces. That way you don’t need to go looking if you are not caught up.

Home 1: https://pelgris.com/2015/07/13/a-story-close-to-home/
Home 2: https://pelgris.com/2015/07/20/home-2/
Home 3: https://pelgris.com/2015/07/27/home-3/
Home 4: https://pelgris.com/2015/08/03/home-4/
Home 5: https://pelgris.com/2015/08/10/home-5/
Home 6: https://pelgris.com/2015/08/17/home-6/
Home 7: https://pelgris.com/2015/08/24/home-7/
Home 8: http://Pelgris.com/2015/08/31/home-8/
Home 9: https://pelgris.com/2015/09/07/home-9/
Home 10: https://pelgris.com/2015/09/14/home-10/
Home 11: https://pelgris.com/2015/09/21/home-11/

Memories

Memory for me is immediate and real. I don’t see things through a haze. Or misremember and take this as fact. I remember in scenes.

I remember body positions. The way someone moves. The emotional context of their words and the impact of the phrasing, but not the exact words themselves.

These memories are stones in an ice river. Ever flowing downstream, but upstream, these moments of frozen time, playing out a silent film, again and again. It is a very personal and comforting type of memory. I hold these moments in my heart forever.

I dance in joy, breathe the night air, answer a question as I dance blindly(glasses off) at a club, marvel at the moon, talk with women, talk with men, sex, and the prelude to sex, brush the hair from eyes, shake my hair out, drink a mojito, flirt with a waiter, hear a horrible truth, the weight of a secret lifting. Thousands of moments, minutes, people and actions.

All culminating into life, my life. And yet, somehow empty. Empty without you.