For This Life

Sometimes life whispers in my ear...A voice so familiar, and I wonder if she spoke to me before my time as I now know it began...

For this life you will need

you will bleed

you will give it everything you are, were, and ever could be.

To live, to truly be alive, always knowing that one day everything you love must die

for this you will throw your soul into the fire

drown in the seas of misery

taste the tears of of your fears

feel the passion of pain

occasionally wondering if you have gone insane

anything to avoid the sands of mediocrity.

For this life

it is glorious, beautiful, obscene, sacred, degraded,

and everything in between
and for the privilege of pain
you will brave the salty seas
be torn apart in the storm
hoping that your tears will sate the parched earth.

To live
in agony
in ecstasy
desperately trying to avoid the spaces between
wherein dwells the mediocrity for which you will hold the deepest distaste
you will suffer the stars in your bones whispering
always calling you home.

For this life
you will bear witness to death
and her inevitable call
all that you love
and all that you know
will eventually travel home

Thought for the Day

Realizations

I realized something today as I was listening to this song...



All this time I thought that I was missing
a place
people
trees
things that we used to do
mountains
something we used to be
a way that things used to feel
the life that we once lived
a piece of me and what I used to be
some kind of specific set of life events or way of living...

But what I miss, why I feel like part of me is gone, like an angel found without wings, or someone missing a very large piece of their whole, is not any of those one thing, or even necessarily a combination of them all.

I miss magic. Something I never really knew I had because it was a part of me, all around me, so much of me, for my entire life.

It's not the wind, it's the whispers of magic in the air.
It's not the stars and the moon, it's the way magic dances in their beams.
It is not the people, but the general acceptance that magic is real.
It is not the dominance and submission, but the feeling of having known each other for a thousand years, having been in love a hundred times before, the knowing flowing through my bones of battles won and lost across the sands of time.

What has me all eaten up, all turned around and inside out, is the feeling of magic being pulled from my bones like wings that I never even knew I had.

Selfish Submission

I have always felt that motivation matters. Not in the sense of being a motivated person (though that matters too), but in the sense that what motivates someone to do something often matters as much as the action itself.

I have long felt that submission shouldn't occur simply for what the sub gets out of it, but I'm going to take a side trip before I land on that thought.

Recently, I have been thinking about what makes us do good things as human beings, and how that makes us good people. Or not. I came to the conclusion that I do good things because of the way it makes me feel, therefore, my drive to do good things is not necessarily based upon how people I may do good for those I have helped, but more selfishly upon the way giving that help makes Me feel.
Being an avid over-thinker (I have no time, but apparently this shit happens in your sleep if your a thought addict), I had to muse on it some more.
Humans are prone to wanting to get something out of their efforts, their interactions, the things they do. Maybe if what we're trying to "get" is a feeling, that isn't quite as selfish as it sounds. What kind of person doesn't feel good when they have done good by somebody else? What would motivate a person to do good if there was no personal sense of inner reward, the fact that sometimes it looks good to the outside world?
Maybe that is one of the things that makes a good person--the fact that providing something for another being who needs it offers a reward in the form of sensation, a feeling, a happiness with their own being.

I have long felt that my submission is selfish, and perhaps it shouldn't be, yet it is. Maybe in the ideal world, from a submissive point of view, submission is truly only all about what the dominant gets.
I have always felt that my submission is selfish because it often comes with the drive to experience how it make me feel, and is not always (by any stretch) about how it makes Him feel.
Yes, there have been many times I didn't want to. Many times that I submitted to events and experiences that I had no desire for, merely because it is what he wanted. Because submission is not about doing what you want to do when you want to do it, or about the things that come easy--it is about bending to another person's will regardless of one's inner desire for an experience. If submission was always about only doing what you wanted, it wouldn't really be submission. And it would be easy.

Ultimately, as a way of life, a mode of being, an arrangement of 24/7 existence, submitting is largely about what I get out of it. Submission is about how it makes me feel inside, under the surface, below the initial urge to rebel. Sometimes it's about how making him feel makes me feel.

Our D/s has been neglected lately. We had a fight the other day. One of those, "both late to work have to go because the facility will, unfortunately enough, come to a crashing halt without us" mornings. It sucked.
He craves sex and affection. I crave...Something else. He feels that his needs are not being met and he defines them clearly in sex and affection, often in the form of my submission. I feel tat my needs are not being met, and I cannot define them clearly.

So I submit. But this form of submission, it is not selfish for the way it make me feel. It is a bandage on a wound, a way of keeping the peace, of fending off his potential "fuck buddies", of not fighting and making it to work on time, of holding us together with a myriad of strings and old cloth-work patches.

I have come to the conclusion that, for me, real true honest from the core submission is selfish. That is when I'm truly there, always all in, handing over all that I am and bending to his surrounding will.
If my submission is not selfish, I'm not all in, not all there, have not given all that I am and all that I have.
Selfish submission makes me feel this:

That is the submission I ache for, yearn for, dream of in the dark. And I get there through my often selfish desire for that particular sensation of being.

Secrets

Before I get to rambling, I would just like to say that this is my 1,000th post. By all rights, it should have probably occurred in March, but my blogging has been sporadic at best.
Given the ups and downs, the length of times between posts, and the distinct lack of D/s related content lately, I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me over the years, those of you who are new here and for some reason found something worth staying for, and the random (albeit occasionally sorely misled by Google) visitors who happen upon my crazy corner and take time out of their days to browse through the insanity that is me.

 Moving on...

So this was a hit I got some time ago, "Secretly making your wife submit" It bugged me.

That's kind of an asshole move, right? I mean, if you want to dominate someone, its probably good to have enough balls not to try and keep it a secret from that person. Is that really even dominance? Gotta say, I'm not sold on it...

Why? How? Why?
That concept is so far outside of anything I even remotely associate with D/s that I'm pretty sure I blinked, sat back, and started a draft which has been sitting in Blogger for months. Possibly since last year. I'm not really sure. I didn't check...
D/s is largely about moving past that stupid bullshit. Deceit, lies, the underhanded approach...What is the point if not to be yourself, the you that you hide, to show someone everything that you really are, and have them accept you anyways?

What value is there in submission that shall never know of its own existence, or be offered freely because some part of the soul whispers about a way that it knows to feel whole?

Maybe D/s really is about secrets. But if D/s is about secrets, it's not about keeping them. It's about opening up that crazy box, the dark closet, the rooms behind the walls, and letting someone else step inside. It's about feeling alive, not just telling yourself that you are.
Yes, perhaps D/s is about secrets. It is about the secrets we keep, the ones we whisper quietly in the dark, the ones we hold close to our hearts like the way we play with candle flames--touch it carefully and oh so quickly, watch the light flicker but do not linger lest the burn sets in.
Perhaps D/s is about secrets, and choosing to linger in the flame until the burn sets in...

That Uncomfortable Feeling

I left a mile-long comment at mouse's place a while back. I try not to do that because, yea--got my own crazy little place to ramble. But, I was sitting here thinking as I have not had much time to do lately (well, that's not exactly accurate, I think all. The. Damn. Time. but business is different). And I started thinking about that uncomfortable feeling that comes when he pushes the edges further out. I mean, I really thought about it.

Before I thought about it, I stood back on the edges and felt it. Not the nitty-gritty little pitfalls of emotion that suck me in, not the jealousy or self doubt, not the emotions that revolve around my concept of self, or the personal perspective of the human sensations an experience evokes. I felt my way around the sensations that come with not being in control. I mean, truly not in control, those places where I would never choose to go but where he can take me if he so chooses.

And I accepted that is my turn-on, my drug of choice, my Achilles heel--the control that is so absolute as to withstand, surpass, and even bypass, my own desires.
More than kisses and sweet nothings, more even than bondage and the pleasure/pain edge, the kink and the physical sensations...Riding that edge of discomfort, the not wanting something so much that being made to do it anyways becomes a turn-on of its own.

I have been pondering my apparent attraction to living on the edge, and my seemingly conflicting desperation for security.
I have come to the conclusion that the two are not a separate as they might appear.
I love hanging off the edge. But only when I know that he is on the other end of the rope that is keeping me from falling to my doom.
I like to play with my demons
to touch my fears
to reach for the fire
and know that he will not allow them to consume me
will not allow them to become me
will not allow it to burn me.

I Get It Now...

This is how I feel about myself these days

It is still odd to me, this being a stranger in a strange place, a stranger to myself, and stranger to the me that now sits upon the shelf.
I wonder sometimes how the woman I work with does it, how she feels alive without the constant fix that used to be her life, the daily trauma and adrenaline, the pain of humanity, the consistent danger of being one step from the edge of death...

I crave it...That feeling which comes only with heart-wrenching agony, the unavoidable truth of reality, the ecstasy of relief when you are challenged in each and every belief, the passion in pain...

As a kid, I never understood. Never understood why my father chose a life that was, to put it bluntly, so fucking hard. Why he reveled in the struggle, the misfits, the underground, the snow and its bitter fucking cold, the lost boys, the broken toys, the unforgiving deserts and the people to poor to put food on the table.
Even a few years ago, I didn't understand his abhorrence for the easy monotony of suburbia, the 2.5 children inside their white picket fences. Why he was addicted to the new mind, the thrill of finding inspiration in the most unimaginable of places. Why he ran so fast and so far from the illusions so many people dream of living.

They showed him that he was alive. That his life was not a lie. The people, the deserts, the snakes, the trees, the mountains and wide open spaces, the struggle and the fight, the blood sweat and tears in which he spent his years...They reminded him to be alive.

I get it now. He was afraid of being dead which is very different than being afraid of dying.

I think that is one of the things that often draws people to ttwd. People spend their lives like money that can go back into the bank. They go to school, get married, go to work, kiss each other goodbye, eat dinner, and repeat the same story for years.
Then one day they wake up, and they wonder if they have truly lived. They wonder what it's like to be reminded of being alive. And they find it in D/s, in M/s, in power exchange, in the ultimate trade. They find it in the exquisite pain, the whips and the chains. They find it when the sensation of being, of really living, pours down in their tears like rain.

I wonder why I no longer seem to seek this, no longer reach for that peak where the air is thin and the edge so close, no longer wish to hand it all over if even just for the moment.

This industry we work in, it takes everything you have. It demands everything in your mind, commands all of your time. It requires you to pour your heart out into the hours, and hand your soul over to the daily toils. Everyone in this industry works too many hours, too many days of the week, does too many jobs, and gets up on Saturday to start all over again. We're all running on empty.
Perhaps we break new ground one inch at a time, perhaps each day we push a little harder against the line, perhaps one day it will be an accomplishment etched forever in time. Perhaps one day it will be a tale of living worth telling.

This was his dream, and most days I feel like it is eating me. I give it everything I have, so maybe that is why I hold back what he always had of me--everything that I have, everything that I am, every thought and every dream of what I could be...It's all taken up. And the pieces of what is left, the little pieces of me, I hold them close to my chest because every day I give all that I am to the ethereal promise of what we could create.

Maybe I resent that I give my all over and over again to a dream that was never mine but upon which our lives now depend. And it's my quiet little subconscious fuck you to keep what I have left of me away from him.
Maybe my fear of not really living simply can no longer compete with my fear of having nothing left that is me...
By the same token though, that part of me exists for him, and it cannot exist and flourish in a self-created void...