All I want is you in my arms
I thought I had found you
each time I am mistaken
So I keep looking, keep finding, keep losing
I’m tired, I’m spent
But my heart still leaps, still yearns, still beats
A little slower now, a little quieter,
Yearning for the soft unguarded moments
I don’t know how many people have access to Google Play All access; I can’t recommend it enough. For those that do have it, this is a evolving play list that I’m creating called upbeat but still me; If anyone is interested.
*reading instructions*
Take a deep breath, on the exhale read a line, repeat
His kisses on my neck.
Swaying to sensuous sounds.
As she dances with me.
Kiss lips, hold right hand, clasped.
Turn and face him, lips eager.
Her head resting against my back as we sway and dance.
I reach under his shirt, running hands along him.
Take off his shirt button by button.
Her kisses along my spine.
Her hands slow, light over me.
Taking off clothes from each other but always touching.
Kisses and soft exploration of each other.
He plunges himself inside me, hands caressing.
Body draped over me, slow and full shudders.
kissing her, touching, slipping in.
holding close, sweat and touch.
Physicality enraptured, skin and pleasure, touch and desire.
coupling and uninhibited.
Sleeping in a pile, waking to her riding me.
his mouth on mine, the taste of his cum.
the velvet hardness of him in my mouth.
my seed spilling into her as his spills into me.
Coffee and eggs, and conversation.
Dinner plans. A life together.
You want that boy and not me. He’s attractive in a bland way. Thin, unlike myself. Though our weights are going in opposite directions, perhaps I’ll wave when we pass each other by. He’s easy with a slimy smile, something soft and malleable in him. He manipulates and doesn’t stay. He’s hedonistic without the learned restraint. Dangerous in a BDSM setting because as a top he’d look to his pleasure first. Put his needs above his submissive. Though I doubt he’d have the discipline for the life. Probably just calls it rough sex, so he can take without giving. He is my opposite in most ways. Easy where I am difficult. Smiles where I am sardonic grins. Smiles that never quite reach his eyes. Where my eyes are mostly how I smile. Shallow waters where I am deep lake with a thermal vent river. He’s a pretty plaything. A bauble picked up then discarded. But I sense he is the type to hit when not wanted; to take when not offered. I would wish I could protect you but you’ve made your choice. I cannot intervene now unless you ask for my help.
He’s not even an adequate lover, you told me about him before we fell apart. Soft when he should be hard, cums one time to your zero times. Pretty, shallow and useless. Insists on no condom. Dirtbag and you went right for him.
I was never that guy. Accomplished by 24, in skills I don’t use anymore admittedly, dating older not younger at that age. I was never easy, never thin either. Alot of muscle but alot of fat too. But tall with wide shoulders. A thinker and a planner. A knight of dark renown. Honor and all that with a bad boy rep. Careful until the moment then I’d dive head first into the deeps. Sexually inexperienced but not virginal. Kegels since I was 12, fine pelvic and ejaculate control resulting. Yes, Kegels are not just for women. Tongue workouts since I was 18. When you like going down as much as I do, you want to make sure you can go as long as your desire dictates. Morgan had some good clay to work with. Pain was already something I liked when we met. She refined my palate and allowed me to grow.
If that boy is what she wants, then I was never right for her. He’s bland milk chocolate. I’m artisan cacoa, seventy percent.
Currently listening to Agnes Obel. The sound is so lush, so decadent. Sensuous, slow, like running hands over skin, not kissing just brushing lips. The hint of sex but comfortable and safe and loving. I cannot recommend her enough.
I distance my heart from you because I must. Because you aren’t interested in me. We don’t talk anymore and I know I’m the one who burned that bridge. By my action but I think we got there together. Yet I still love you. The pain when I see you. When we don’t talk. I want to convince myself that it’s just the talk that I want, but that’s a lie. What I want is for that moment we connected, that spark I felt and that connection you said you felt. what I want is for that to come to full fruition. To be a romantic relationship. Which I know is not to be, but I can’t stop loving you. I just don’t think about you in every waking moment, when I receive a message there is no longer that thrill of hope that it’s from you. You are the first in a long time to spin me round. I would have done anything, anything for you. The only thing I wanted was what I gave. Maybe the price was too much for you to pay. Maybe that connection was you just agreeing to get along and not truth. I am foolish enough to hope that you will come to me and ask for another chance. I would give it. I love you.
You know, I write very personal things but I keep part of my life hidden. Even here, where I write about anything that pops into my head.
No more. I am a pagan. I serve the Lords of Air, more specifically the Lord of Night, Lord of Winter, Lord of Storm. Warleader of the lords of air. I am a priest and a shaman(an intercessor between physical reality and spiritual realms.) I am keenly aware of how insane that sounds. That doesn’t make it any less true.
I’ve seen things, done things, experienced things that defy normal explanation. At least to my standards. Of course if you hold beliefs contrary, nothing will be enough.
I don’t proselytize. I don’t seek to convert.
And I am not likely to be persuaded my beliefs are false. It’s a big part of my life that even people very close to me don’t get to see. I, pretty much, only share with fellow believers or magic practitioners. Yes, I practice magic. More esoteric hermetic than anything else but yeah, it’s there. If anyone wants to know more ask in the comments and I’ll expound.
Do you remember who you were at 3 years old, what you were doing? I do.
Do you remember the books you read or the things you did when you were 6? I do.
Do you know when you first felt lust? I do, and it was in 1st grade.
I remember. I remember. I remember.
It is what I do. When I talk about vignettes playing out in my head from the frozen river of the past. That’s some decent imagery but it is also the plain truth.
I don’t get to forget. The best I can hope for is to compartmentalize the memory and convince myself that its forgotten. I write because I must. Because doing so relieves some of the stress. I wrote all through high school. Then I stopped. I stopped for 13 years. so what did I do to relieve stress? I fell back on another coping mechanism. hedonism.
Pure physical gratification. Drink, music, sex, food, psychedelics. Anything, everything to deal with pain. My Sara saved me by teaching me to harness those impulses, to rein them in. To master myself through mastering others. Then I lost her. And the barren earth desolation of that loss is still with me. I’m choked up just writing this as memories pour out of the open doors.
Do I occasionally still retreat to that place where only physical lust will satisfy that need? Yes. Do I indulge in it? I don’t. It is the most self destructive thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a fairly large number of things I’ll likely never speak of. I can harness those experiences. I write about those experiences and it can seem like I’m engaging in those activities. I’m not.
I wrote 3 pieces today in addition to this one and in one I state I only move forward. It’s true. The past informs the future. It does not control it. I control me and I choose to become more than I was. Always forward. Understanding and accepting the past is a necessity, especially for someone who doesn’t get the gift of forgetting. But allowing that past to be the only thing you will ever be is not acceptable.
I was recently wondering about my personality type; INTJ if your interested. I was sort of obsessing about it. There are incongruities with the type and how I handle the world and I realize now it’s because I remember. Because I have been working on who I am and what I want and how those things are expressed actively for years. Since I was in grade school and decided I would always listen to new music. Because I saw my parents get stuck in the music of their youth and I saw that as stagnation. Always forward even then.
I assess, observe. Always myself, always open, always honest. If I like what I see then I advance. Moving closer to them. Sharing more of myself. Seeking them out more. I only ever move closer. I never pull away. If a relationship breaks and burns it does so at the distance I am from it. I do not seek refuge. I burn as it burns. And broken from it, I do not retreat. I become more. Learn more, be more. And advance. I’ll have my doubts but will always move forward.
I have had a revelation. I handle emotional pain the same way I handle physical pain. At first the pain is new and sharp. I drown in it. With physical pain I can shift it into pleasure, and that’s what makes me a masochist. That learned ability to shift one to the other.
With emotional pain I use it as fuel for poetry or songs. But long term pains don’t go away. They fade from my consciousness. I am shifting the emotional pain into a room and closing the door. I do the same with physical pain.
I acknowledge it, but if it is debilitating beyond my control, I shift it to my subconscious. My subconscious then handles it while my conscious mind goes about its business. With physical pain, this works and allows my body to function at a higher level for longer periods of time. With emotional pain it doesn’t work as well.
I need to unpack those pains and work through them. I can use my subconscious for some of that, employing my dreams to work through issues the same way I assign problems to my subconscious to work through. That results in occasional crying jags as my subconscious pushes something to the surface to be dealt with.
This process is thorough and I learn much about myself and my actions but it takes years to expiate the pain. With Sara it took eight years, a catalyst and then two more years to make it where I can remember without losing my shit, mostly. But I understand each emotional piece, each why and each feeling.
So that’s my realization. That’s why my pain lingers, and why people can see me as cold. My pain is a deep river flowing beneath the surface, only occasionally coming to the surface in ways other than writing.
Pelgris 