The nicest thing you can do for yourself is to forgive yourself for the missing of deadlines. Forgive and try to do better. Because once you have failed at something you’ve set out to do, it’s too late. That iteration has failed and all you can do is move forward. It’s trite but still true.
I know I’ve been missing a few of these. My brain feels empty. My heart placid. Without the roil, without the sturm and drang, without the churn, it’s hard to write anything. I miss the passion. The surety of purpose. The faith in hunanity.
I’ve crawled out of a deep well of blank
Blank walls and blank stares
Just an endless nothing
Palisades I built looking to hide from all the pain I couldn’t face
And even those walls weren’t enough
I locked my self down the deepest well
In the darkest parts of my mind
I thought it would be easier to just not feel for awhile
I guess when you’re gushing hearts blood and you’re so completely lost in a world that can’t understand what you are feeling
You don’t make the best decisions
That pain just built behind those walls
That tsunami waiting to destroy me
So I hid
Of course I hid
So deep that feeling even pain was blunted
But it couldn’t last
I couldn’t last
Eventually, I couldn’t feel anything
So I threw open the doors
Climbed out of that well filled with pain cored through the very center of my being
And I immediately drowned
That pain crushed me
Beat me against the battlements
Slammed me against the walls
Those soundless screams which wracked my body
Which, even now whisper, broke from my throat
That was the journey which brings me to mild depression and poems which feel empty
Without that cut down mewling pain
It only took ten years.
Maybe in another ten, I’ll be able to write that same joy I feel, on occasional morning
Like I wrote in blood
In the beginning
The problem with writing about inner turmoil is that as you deal with your emotional trauma that voice which drives you to write gets quieter and quieter
Sometimes depression yells pretty loudly, sometimes anxiety breaks through and gibbers all over the page. But that bleak dying cry from the abyss is silent. And this is better, I know it’s better. It’s just hard to reach that emotional depth. And I wonder if the wounds are really healed or if there’s just so much scar tissue that I can’t feel through it.
I feel like I cry about things which never would have touched me before. I don’t know if that’s progress or emotional honesty. I’m on a self guided journey. There are good and bad things to celebrate in that, but sometimes, you just want someone to tell you that you are doing the right thing. But who can? When you are adrift in the wilderness.
Even when you are with someone, you are alone. What else could you be, in the white noise silence. In the space of their lives and the distance between you
Fun fact about me: I was going to another room to read my book and I went to plug my phone in for charging. I wasn’t going to use it, I was going to read. But then I thought, “But what if I get a idea, how will I write it down?” So, here I am writing down a little story about needing to be able to write things down instead of reading my book. #writerslife
I have the easiest time connecting with people who read my writing. Because in my writing, with how I write, there is no place to hide. If you are afraid? Write it. Feeling something? Write it. Thinking about anything? Write it. It’s all there. Years of me. Thoughts and feelings. So people come to me past all my defenses and pretenses. And I think are probably surprised. Because all that writing is just me. Without exaggeration, but at a distance. In person it’s more. Without the intercessor of the screen or the page, how can it be helped but to be even more real?
Regarding the Valentine’s Day story
I think it is pretty common in stories of an erotic nature to present as if all parties are mind readers. And there is a bit of that in this one, mostly between a couple who have been married for years.
But I think that there is also a assumption beyond the story that a master or top just somehow knows what to do. And really what is involved is planning, forethought, and really a lot of work.
Gear, specialty clothing, and other accessories don’t just appear. Spacial planning, especially when juggling two submissives is key. In general, a submissive will see the outlines and will know, basically, what’s going on. A master will plan it all out. And will walk down a list of if/then to keep things flowing. But even a master can fool themselves. We are human and we make mistakes. And when that happens, even someone like me who likes improvisation, will be thrown for a loop.
That means we end up taking time. A submissive might then experience a extended scene where the master is not present. A game or thought experiment or deprivation. Something that gives us space to reconsider and plan.
In the story, Pel has a partner who understands his mindset and she helps him to work through the process of finding a suitable solution. Just by being there and suggesting something.
I’ve never punished a sub for a good idea. Even if that idea is we halt play for a time to refocus. And halting play when you are on tilt is smart. Especially, when considering edge play. Which is what the character, Sara, desires.
So, we see uncertainty and a master who has been on tilt and struggling to catch up for the last few installments. Because we are human, and these stories are about more than just sex or play.
On a good day, I have less to write about. Because, truly, pain and desire are the potent mixture that fuels my poetry.
But on these days of contentment, I find my mind slipping to the thought of you. Whomever, you may be. Whether I’ve met you or not. Just the thought that these are the times I want to share. The darker times I need. These are the times I want. If the difference is clear.
Today is a day in the sun. A few hours of good. I wish I could share them with you in my arms.
I’m in the midst of a writing project. I am writing a poem which I write at the end of the day. What makes it a project is the form. Which is this: each day starting February 1st I write and on day 1 it’s a single word, day 2: 2 words, day 3: 3 words. Etc. I had planned on stopping at the end of the month but I wonder if I can make it a year. I will post at the end of the month. Both the complete and the by the day. It’s interesting because it’s not just the distilled moment that I normally write in, but is instead the slow accumulation and drift of my inner voice as the days themselves pass.
So my brain finally figured out something that would scare me and not trigger one of my subconscious tripwires. Which draw me into a lucid dream should a nightmare prove too scary.
It was pretty typical weirdness. A pharaoh brought back to life, filming a movie and not being friends with the extras who didn’t want to be friends with us anyway. A house party, and a snowstorm.
Then I receive a email. A email chronicling the manipulations of the person I’m in love with. The person who (in the dream) is manipulating me. Screwing with my head just because she can. Laughing about how she got my trust. Got into my life. About how utterly foolish I am. About how she got access to my wordpress account.
About my wordpress account being scoured of content.
I rush to check it and I’m locked out. I reset my password and get in and everything is gone. The account isn’t deleted. But everything is gone. Just this barren shell of everything I’ve written and worked on for more than 3 years.
Then I forced myself awake and it was one of those times where I kept waking but not up, just into another dream. Making it particularly horrible.
Do you ever sit back and think, “Fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Every time I finish a story or a project, I sit down and think about what’s next. The last project is the past. I’ll direct people to it. But in my head, it’s over and I’m thinking about what is next. And I’m freaking out. Because I don’t know what comes next. I have no idea what I’ll write. And after a year and a half of writing and recording, I am either done or I just don’t know where the story goes from here. And I honestly don’t know which scares me more. That I’m done or that I have no idea what I’m doing next.
It’s not writer’s block. I wish it was. That I can work through. It’s idea block. That’s all I need. An idea.
There’s the Pel and Sara story and a poetry compilation I want to put together. But what from there?