When I thought of the thought of thinking of you

The awful truth of memory is that the more important, more cherished, a memory is…the quicker it’s faded or distorted. Each time we recall a memory it’s like pulling it from an old school platter drive. Erasing it completely until we save it again. Over and over, each time wearing away the section and introducing distortions until the original memory is lost. Until all you have is the memory of the memory and a description you tell yourself while recalling it. Or maybe only writers do that, I don’t know.

My memories take a long time to fade. Mainly because I try to only access the description of the memory and not the full blown sensory experience. But some important people, they’ve faded almost completely. A worn out picture. A novel read and reread so much that the paper can no longer hold ink. Trying to recall them and all I have is flashes and vague gauze, which even now tatters and fades.
I understand pictures now. But still, what the camera sees and what my mind saw, will never be the same.

Musings of the Mind

I get the privilege of being wired differently. Each experience I have is encapsulated as it’s own individual thing. Each interaction exists independent of other interactions.

This is a result of both how my mind works and how I have constructed my memory. I say constructed because while my memory semi does this already, I have consciously created a subconscious memory palace. It’s not as efficient as a conscious memory palace where one can place a memory and retrieve it with ease. It does, however, have advantages. Instead of distinct edges which separate, my method allows for a fuzziness. This fuzziness allows connection points to other data as well as non-physical datum. In other words it allows me to include emotions. It also allow me to, in conjunction with my creative ability, Take the data point and set it spinning.

By which I mean, I can extrapolate possibilities and probabilities. However, unlike some Patrick Jane or Sherlock Holmsian connection puzzle, my method takes time. Specifically, it takes sleep or quite meditation.

Now, how is this an advantage? Simply put, each interaction, can be isolated and while it is an integrated part of my whole, it is also distinct. Which means that instead of feeling anxiety during Teleconference because of it’s association with work or with meetings, I can feel the moment without the baggage of similar moments. I can enjoy a meal or a conversation without the burden of past meals or conversations and only in hindsight can I compare it.

I wish I could teach others how to do something similar. I can only think that it may be useful. But I have been unable to. I can give the tools I use. But that is not the spark of it. I can tell you what I do, what it feels like to me, but until that moment of epiphany which occurs again and again to become a method…it cannot take hold. How does one give the experience of joy exactly as you feel it?

You cannot, you can only give them the path. And allow them the space of their journey. And fight the inclination to tell them of blind alleys. Of what is possible and not. Because what was possible for you, what was dangerous to you, may not be to them. May indeed be the spark needed to ignite their journey.

A sacrifice for all I have failed, a gift for all I have loved

I tell you now that every lost relationship
Every person who walked away
Every voice that faded to whisper
To silence
Every one
I still feel
I can recall how I felt the moment I was lost
I can recall every step
Thinking it was toward something
And I remember that heartbreak clarion call of ending
People get past things
People’s memories fade
But somehow
All for me linger
Until I can’t see faces but remember the feel of a touch
Until some word you spoke
Some poem
Some stray neuron fires
And I remember
While it’s true that you can grow to let go
Still, half stitched wounds spill open
I envy you
Your forgetting
I’ve not unlearned how to remember
How to smell and taste you
One step away
Maybe it’s a solace
To not forget
The good times made sorrow by the bloodletting of the end
I failed to be merciful once, twice
I won’t pretend to be free of mistakes
If I could give those moments back to you
I would
Not speak as if I was trying to kill
Not let silence feed into silence
All I can say
Is that man you knew
Who hurt
Who in fire and drowning quiet
He is dead
And only I
Who mourn his actions
Striving to be better, am left
His memories mine
The hell of it is
He was a wounded animal
Looking for connections
And acting destroyer
Even as he loved
There is no forgiveness for what he did
But he’s gone
And I’m here
And each silent voice is another pain
And each pain is another wound
And each wound is another path
And each path another person
And each person
Another loss
I hope you walked away
To someone better than me
I hope you are happy
My heart will allow me nothing less

Secondary definition 

I say always and
You say That’s sweet
I say always and
You sigh happily
I say always and
You smile and duck your eyes
I say always and
You say I love you
I say always and
You say not ready
I say always and
You say not now
I say always and
You say goodbye
I say always and
There is only silence
I say always

Always wasn’t a promise
Always wasn’t an endearment
Always wasn’t romance

It was a warning
A cry
A bell chiming

It was the deep silence in the winter dawn
It was the quiet hush of a summer afternoon
It was the deep and abiding melancholy of 2am

It was a plea
Of understanding
That some people
Never forget
That there is nothing so fundamentaly luxurious
As the fading light of memory

And here I stand

Dealing with open wounds

Time heals nothing. It’s our fading memories that give rise to this statement. We forget. The closest I get to forgetting is compartmentalizing those experiences into a specific mindstate. I might even code the mindstate to a locale. I sometimes wish my mind allowed me to forget completely. But then I’ll recall a conversation or a smile or dancing with Morgan. I’ll recall a kiss or a touch. And as much as these memories are melancholic, I would not trade them for the temporary comfort of forgetting. Of losing them.

Open doors

The flesh is a mere gateway. A doorway to pleasure. A medium by which worship and devotion are made tangible. A lash of the whip binds the mind to the flesh, that lance of pain bled exctasy binds mind to mind. A moment forever frozen in memory. The tracing of a scar line evoking love and care, devotion and pleasure. All from a simple mark of flesh. Flesh is a mere gateway, but a gateway to the mind, eternal.

Wind blown snow

She echos in my place of sanctuary
Looking out the window or curled on the couch
But for this ghost, the wind blown snow serves as isolation
The elemental howling, screaming through the creaking trees
Amidst the snap and pop of the hearthfire
Sitting on the couch reading aloud
Remembering you cuddled against me
Listening with rapt attention


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.

Rambling thoughts

There is a surprising degree of romantic thought that goes into Bdsm play. As master, I construct the scene. I create the space, the framework that my submissive can step into. We’ll have had the Negotiation well ahead of time. I prefer a date somewhere public to have that discussion. It allows me to gauge the degree of exhibitionist they are, allows me to see how comfortable with the lifestyle and degree of interest in the various acts. For many, the public setting puts them off balance and allows space for honesty. That’s just the initial meeting, I use text and fantasy scenarios to see what space they want to explore. Pleasure is all well and good, but discovery of something new or a variation is often better.

I say romantic because the scenario preplay is idealized and postplay it’s often misremembered through the haze, (if it was good). I, unfortunately, can’t do that. Forget enough to fill in pieces, I mean. I have a specific type of sense memory. I remember people I have been romantically entangled with. I remember each touch, and a few minutes after touch with crystalline clarity. It is a curse.


She’s smiling and I’m laughing
She’s sleeping and I’m watching
She’s incandescent and I’m night

It’s all in my rear view
And I can’t fight the fight

Each day that passes and I’m further away from you
I’m losing those moments, those minutes, those days.
Each time I wake, I walk farther away
Each time I sleep, I remember.

It wasn’t the loss that I could not endure
It’s this litany of days and hours without you

She’s dancing and I’m clapping
She’s yelling and I’m screaming
She’s cold and I’m colder

It’s all in my rear view
And I’m another year older

Each day that passes and I’m further away from you
I’m losing those moments, those minutes, those days
Each time I wake, I walk farther away
Each time I sleep, I remember

It wasn’t the loss that I could not endure
It’s this litany of day and hours without you

She’s going and I’m watching
She’s bleeding and I’m not there
She’s dying and I’m at fault.

It’s always here with me