Another Blogaversary...?

Most importantly, thanks to everyone who left me birthday wishes--I have not forgotten that you rock and I still need to respond to your comments.

Pretty sure that today is my blog's birthday, but in typical fashion, blogger is screwing with me, and I'll be damned if I sift through every post of 2010 to get to the first one.

Ironically, this is also the day I chose to start another blog. I think that it's not going to be a nice place, or a happy place, or a place that anyone in their right mind would like to read, but if you want the link, email me or leave a comment. The point is that the soul sucking cunt (who really needs to pull off a miracle and develop the human decency to quit reading here), doesn't read there. So it's mine. All fucking mine.

I'm not abandoning this blog. I contemplated doing so over the last months, but I won't. It holds my story, and will hold many more to come. It is just not the place for me to get all of what I need out of writing at the moment. I am...Without sanctuary, and in many instances of the present, this place no longer offers me that.

When I started this blog in 2010, I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would find myself sitting where I now sit. In a city of half a million disconnected people, with a husband in love with another woman and working in a different state than the one I live in, with me loving another man who refuses to even sit in a room alone with me. And no fucking trees or rocks.
Seriously, I have learned that the mountains will accept me wherever I am. But they don't take me as theirs. It's not "home" and it never will be.

We all grew up with "magic". Every child learns the first basic protection spell as soon as they can comprehend words. Here? You're a bit crazy for even mentioning such a concept. Say, "I feel you and you're a beautiful fucking being" and you're lucky if that person ever speaks to you again without wondering how a nice fancy white straight jacket would look on you.

Recently, we "discussed" okay, fought about, the concept of removing the collar. The truth is, whether I am any good at it or not, does not change the fact that I am what I am. And we are who we are. He'll never agree to remove the collar. Ever. And I'll never have the balls to actually hand it to him and ask for release.

On the bright side, my eldest is rocking this life shit. You know those videos where sixty fucking kids stand around and record some kid getting the shit beat out of them, and MAYBE, one kid steps in for the underdog and breaks it up? He is that one kid. And I adore the shit out of him for the human being he is becoming. The path he chooses is not an easy one. There are consequences to standing up for what you believe in. Very few people in this world are willing to accept those consequences.

Too many people think that this D/s shit is easy, that being a slave is simple. The truth is, you never fucking know how painful and difficult it can be until your drowning in the deep end. I have come to realize how very few truly commit to this shit. And I don't mean that in an offensive way. If anything, I am envious. Very fucking envious. Because it is the only thing that can truly compound the sensation of watching your heart and soul disintegrate into a million tiny pieces. Because you can't walk away. No matter how badly you want to, or how poor your ability to serve. It's the only thing that can make love fuck you up even more than it inherently is able to.

Perfect Storm

It's easy to say that I'm difficult to love, really fucking hard to handle, misunderstood, that people don't know how to deal with me because I never. Quite. Fit.

I am outrageously me in a world without belief.

It's another thing completely to realize that those words are absolutely completely true.

It's 10:00 at night, I'm browsing poetry and listening to this on repeat just loud enough that the child doesn't wake (pretty loud honestly. The kid sleeps like a rock when he's out).

I never realized that it was different to grow up talking to fucking trees, or never questioning the concept of controlling the elements, or feeling other people's thoughts. I never felt it out of place to hear the sentence, "I'm married to a witch, so"...

I never comprehended the concept of sitting on my knees listening to him explain to Omega that on my knees is where I communicate best, if you want to know my heart and soul, if you want to be heard and felt to the depths of my being, that is where to put me--any test of truth is going to shine through, me in my rawest form, odd to see I'm sure...

I didn't know that one is not supposed to laugh in millionaires faces and treat them like children when their behavior warranted such, that one does not (apparently) repeat unwanted truths to a CEO over and over again, or just outright fucking rebel against injustice, that to choke on your drink and announce that someone has no clue what the hell they're talking about is frowned upon...

I didn't know how absolutely abnormal it was to go around spewing emotion. That not everyone feels every-single-goddamned thing with a burning, all-consuming intensity.
Bleeding messy blood-red dreams shamelessly into a world of beautiful pastels...Creates difficulty.

I am not easy to handle. Part of never actually realizing that, was in not giving myself enough credit--if you think you aren't really all that much, you can never comprehend how much it takes to deal with you.

I could say that I am a combination of unstable elements, but the truth is, I am the perfect fucking storm.
"A 'perfect storm' is an expression that describes an event where a rare combination of circumstances will aggravate a situation drastically.^[1] The term is also used to describe an actual phenomenon that happens to occur in such a confluence, resulting in an event of unusual magnitude. The term "perfect storm" is nearly synonymous with "worst-case scenario", although the latter carries more of a hypothetical connotation."

I used to think that it was conceited to think of oneself in such terms. Now my brain's like, "Girl, you just fucked up. That ain't no compliment!" so we're all good.

I don't know how people keep it all in, often hidden even from themselves...
How does one never spill rage when they can feel it exploding in flames around them?
How does one bother to pretend when pain isn't rolling off of them in waves?
How in the fuck does one love just a little?? How do you hide that shit, ride it out like a secret that only matters in the night, hide it from the ones for whom you feel it the strongest, only feel it halfway??

People forget where they came from, decide there's some shame in pain, and hide everything behind their good name. It's the name of the game.
And when I find that I have to play, I discover that those whom I love and trust the most are the ones who pay, because spilling it out to them becomes an all-consuming need, preceding everything.

The truth is, we're all humans desperately clinging to humanity's remains. We live, we love, we fight, we get each other all fucked up. Mostly because we are afraid to admit our love, and in that silence, we either don't love enough, or we love entirely too much.

Focus in The Rabbit Hole

I have 44 drafts right now. Forty-fucking-four...

I am lacking focus. We are both lacking in focus lately...

A great deal of submission is about surrender, letting go...And a great deal of it is focus.

Alpha isn't much one for ropes and chains, not often anyways. Mental bondage is much more his thing.
If one is tied, then one must obey and stay. If one is told to hold position...It is the mental binding which keeps them in place--one makes the choice to make oneself remain no matter what, because that is what they have been told to do. And their instilled inner compulsion requires that they obey the command. To him, that exercise in control is far more rewarding.

It takes a lot of focus, on both sides, for a word to hold as tightly as any binding. I have found the struggle against physical bonds to be deliciously freeing--the option of movement, even if that movement is just a futile attempt...It's easier.

The stillness of being on one's knees...Focused surrender. The peace of surrender is slightly more difficult to achieve when focus is lacking.

Focus on him
focus on the moment
focus on stillness
focus on the space.

Focus on letting go
focus on surrender.

Letting go is about releasing everything outside in that moment--the only thing left is what he chooses to allow, letting go of the rope that maintains one's hold on everything outside of the rabbit hole. Surrender is yielding to him, letting him all the way in, falling down the rabbit hole without resistance...

I'm having a hell of a hard time letting go these days, and I reach a certain point of surrender and balk...I begin attempting to halt my descent down the rabbit hole by clawing at the walls as I fall...Trying to break the descent with bleeding fingers because I'm afraid of crashing to pieces at the bottom perhaps?

I need to understand why I am afraid to let go of the rope, to surrender as I once did...Because my commitment to doing so has been tested repeatedly lately in ways I had never really understood it could be, and has not failed. Yet, there's been this inner....

There has been a lot of focus on serving lately, and random moments of extreme D/s...Dunno really, moments of extremes and very little consistent in-betweens?

I am afraid to fall down the rabbit hole, but I tumbled over the edge long ago. There is no scrambling back up to the top to end the descent. Perhaps one simply falls forever, perhaps there are strange and wonderful things to explore at the bottom, perhaps one eventually hits rocks and breaks into a thousand pieces.

I don't know...

It most certainly does.Quite a bit extra, in fact...

Gave Up on Words...

My words don't seem to really be working for me these days....

Expansions in Perception

Alright, I decided to stop being such a selfish bitch and set my posts so one can actually read them--that white font on black is bullshit. I know it.

Time to snap out of the shit. There was a day when I wrote things that people like Omega found useful, and perhaps inspired shared insights from people like him, which expanded my concepts and thought processes. It's been a while...

Somewhat as expected, that last post was avoided like the plague while most of you likely sat there scratching your heads wondering if I had really finally gone off the deep end for good (though I must say, Jz's response was absolutely priceless).
The concept of "In love" is tainted by Hallmark cards and our belief of the definition's limitations. For me, in love is very much about, D/s yes, but also the simple fact that one truly places the well-being of another above their own.
I know my last post was...Seemingly entirely out of tune with the blog's recent and not so recent history. In all fairness, the beauty of poetry is that every reader can be allowed to think it is about them, see it in themselves, or interpret in whatever way it strikes them personally. The deepest mention here previously was an expression of how far I had fallen, a warning the poor man was never given.
The universe brought us El Mundo Bueno, and El Mundo Malo We fell off the bad side into her, but the good one never left us and we've set ourselves back on the other side of that line.
Omega goes beyond the concept of poly, and he has a girl whom he believes to be his One. Even should she turn out not to be, he is undoubtedly deserving of having One who puts him above all else (he will have that, and we will do anything for her because she will be his).
He is someone we have let into the deepest parts of our lives, someone we have a spiritual connection with, a member of our family. He honestly knows us more deeply than anyone in our lives ever has. And we are one hell of a team out in the world.
We both trust him implicitly, which was previously unheard of outside of our trust for each other. It is inevitable that someone so deeply important to our lives and so prominently featuring in our existence would play a role here and need to be defined by name.

Moving on to newly and un-regularly scheduled programming...

As humans, we have a tendency to allow our world, or at least our perception of it, to narrow. Even within expansion. For instance, when we came out here, the world grew. A lot. But my perception never really let me see beyond the entrance to work (arriving and leaving in the dark helps).

I realized recently that I have somehow managed to maintain a fairly narrow view of submission over the years. The narrow focus of my perception blocked my acceptance and realization of the depths and extents of submission in my being. It has also previously not allowed me to comprehend the amount of psychological conditioning which has occurred over the years, and how deep that conditioning really goes.

When you combine the years of conditioning with energetic based experiences, everything is multiplied. So fucking much is never about touch, and often has a deeper impact than what we see in the moment.
While I say that Omega declined the offer, the truth is--he tabled the physical offer, but we have actually spent a lot of time playing around in that space. He's been present for a lot of mental reconditioning, and the energetic exchange was inevitable for the three of us in those circumstances. In reality, that is the most defining and deep aspects of ttwd--there is so much beyond actual touch...
His presence has contributed in no small way to my increased perception of the conditioning already there. Simply having those previously outside eyes looking in, and experiencing feelings and mental sensations related to somebody beyond Alpha reminded me of the rather extreme intensity of this dynamic.

If You Believe...

I have pretty much ignored my readers and the blogs of people I care about here for a while now. But I have never forgotten you, never stopped appreciating you, never stopped caring about your stories. I truly do appreciate you, and looking at some of the lasting silence from my blogroll, I know that too much time has passed since I really roamed, read, and wrote here.

I have missed you. And I have not forgotten.

Alpha reminded me that magic isn't something you lose. Magic exists when you believe in it, and you only lose your connection with magic if you truly believe that you have lost the ability to create it. But when you remember...

Is It Still Really Mine?

I'm sitting here staring at the page. It is strangely unfamiliar, as if not being who I once was made this place foreign to me. Perhaps some of it is the absence, perhaps some of it is the beautiful and terrible things life brings. Perhaps most of it is that I gave her things I can never get back, and this place is one of them.

I fell in love with people I shouldn't have.
Magic.
They're fucking magic.
And hers is broken, twisted, in a moment I missed it...

I sit contemplating fire and ice, my strange desires and slow burning fires under the surface.
Wondering of what I can now write here.

Is it really still mine? This blog, frozen in time.

I gave it too her...

He suggested that I move to a new spot,and start over. I thought about it. It would be giving up the last remnants of home that I have dragged with me through this fucking hell-hole of a place we now live.
So I'm torn...I don't want to give this up. Yet the things that belong here, the stories that this place was created for, I have them...And what happens when she reads them?

So maybe just theory and cryptic poetry...Or maybe I say fuck it, she went out of her way to make this hurt as much as she could, so if she feels compelled to read and doing so is like grinding the nail in a little deeper, then it's her own damn bad...

The way she left, the efforts she made, to provoke him into breaking me and destroying himself...She wanted to see me left in pieces...She did everything she was asked not to...Maybe I'll never know why, maybe I'll always wonder inside...Why she wanted to know that I cried as she lied.

Maybe I'll be stardust, maybe just rust...

I come here to write, the dreams the moments, the experiences, the feelings...And I pause. Because I know that she will read. Me.
But I'll not be responsible for her insecurities. She didn't believe, didn't listen, didn't take heed; the whole reason she was given this link in the first place. So I think that here I will continue to spill my escapades, all my little pieces of Hades. Pieces of me.

Yes...I Could Write About...

Yes, there was a post. Yes, it was angsty as fuck. Yes, I took it down. Yes, I censor the shit out of myself here now. And yes, I do remember all of those times I swore that I would never do that. What can I say, shit happens.

Yes, I have a lot that I could write about, but I don't.

I could write about how I have learned that kneeling is a spiritual experience for me, about how I went from managing a million dollar department to working in little back rooms in warehouses and the sides of mountains, how fucking difficult it is to be taken seriously as a woman in this industry.

I could write about losing a night or a week or two to drugs I've never touched, about the overwhelming urge to serve and surrender in ways I never really thought I'd crave, about how I realized that maybe I was right and the world can't break me, but I sure as hell can break myself.

I could write about the inordinate amount of time I sit talking to an empty chair--pouring out my fears, musings, pain happiness and tears. About how drowning all the goddamn shades of grey as someone who sees the world in black and white fucks me up, about desire and need to feed that sometimes overwhelms me. About what it's like to have people you trained, mentored, bled cried and sweated with, tell you they'll work for you anywhere you go if you just say the word--and not have a place for them to go.

I could write about how if you have millions of dollars worth of inventory, I'm the one you want to have the fucking keys, but I'm a woman in a man's industry making better money remaining unseen. About stirring up the mix and getting my fucking fix, about how speaking from my knees in surrender to my demons, his demons, dreams without reason, has become my way of speaking to god. About what it's like being a storm in a world where everyone desires only shelter, about the fact that I'm a fucking whore and I really don't mind anymore, or about a look and sentence I was given regarding shame--a moment I'll carry and be forever grateful for.

I could write about how beautiful music makes my son cry, or about how he's gonna help raise his brother for a couple months while live on the side of a mountain. About feeling and feeding darkness and dancing with dreams and demons. About what it's like to rip your own heart out and look at it from the inside. About being the crazy fucking white girl everyone thinks hates them, when the truth is--I am who I am and maybe I'm just to busy to care to share words. About acceptance as possibly one of the greatest gifts one can give...

Yes, there's a lot I could write about. But for now, poetry goes into a folder on the desktop, and the rest is poured out to an empty chair in a lonely city of half a million people whose thoughts never quiet and which so deeply disturb my silence.

For You

I think a lot too. And one of the things I have learned about doing so, is that it does not always provide me with the best answers.

I didn't realize that you so genuinely believed that I would just leave you like that. I had no idea that you felt us to be so closely intertwined with the building. But that's not what this post is about, and it is certainly not what or who this post is for.

It's for you. The two of you, both of you, one of you, either of you, me, the darkness that dances in our souls, the demons which make us whole, the magic and connection which turns everything inside out and upside down.
I will inevitably switch between the two of you, but  you will see me as you invariably do and know that my words were meant for you.

You said things to me about darkness. About my darkness, about your darkness, about consuming my darkness.
And I realized something...This gift you have given me, to accept my darkness, to swallow my sins, to shelter my raging storm...News to me, as usual, that which is right in front of my eyes. What an amazing blessing it is to be able to hand someone my darkness that I may shine.

And it's crazy you know, that I can take her box of darkness for safekeeping, but not yours. Part of me feels a deep sadness that I cannot keep that for you, and some guilt that you have chosen to be the keeper of my demons and I want so desperately to cradle hers...
I get it now though, how precious and beautiful and painful to be the keeper of someone's darkness. Because I want hers.

I didn't want to be alone tonight. But it's okay. Because the pull has been so fucking strong. I feel you. Constantly. Both of you. And he feels you through me because that is what we are. It is sensory overload, a crowded yet lonely road, fucking ecstasy and fear.

I wish you could see you like I see you. Both of you. For you know not what you are, either of you. You are incapable of beholding your own beauty, which is, in an of itself, a beautiful thing.

Do you think that I or we cannot handle your crazy, your family, your own personal shit-show? You would be wrong. Do you think that I do not know when I need to be with my children, and when other shit comes first? I have made many sacrifices for them and will, no doubt, make many more. I am capable of knowing when and how I need to make those choices.

The truth is, I'm fucking terrified. And I try to sooth your demons, both of you, but I'm just me. And I need you to see each other with the same insight that you see me.
I am sorry that you are both my place, my saving fucking grace. I know that I'm a damn hurricane. And so are you. One a storm like mine, the other a shelter for all storms now and those which have come before.

Don't run from me. Run with me. Drown in the fucking sea. Take a chance in the fucking deep end for me. I'm worth it if I am as you say you see me.

Your understanding of me is limited by your perception of him. His perception of you is felt through me. It is not an easy place to be.
I think it scares you, this control which I have given to him, the control which gives him license to tell me which way to go. What you do not see is that his love of me becomes love of you. That he wouldn't ask of me to leave you if you give me that chance that was asked of you. That he wouldn't break your heart because it is intertwined with mine, that he contains my darkness so that I can hold yours.

I carried my boy to bed, thoughts of you both wandering through my head...

I am sorry my love, that after all these years I found an element like mine, one who turned me inside out and upside down, sorry that you feel through me all of those things she can barely see. You are more loyal than I deserve, more loyal than I have earned. You are a more beautiful human being than you give yourself credit for. I'll never forget that, never desert it, never dishonor it.

I am sorry my love that life is a shit-show. He is that which I have needed him to become, and you are that which I have come to need. If I am to you as you profess me to be, than I am worth a chance, worth that long slow dance. Many lifetimes before, come and gone, some perhaps together, other perhaps tragedy written in the stars, tragedy which makes for just one of many scars. But not this one. Oh my lovely, please not this one. Come see what it is to be warm. Make magic with me and trace lines through the stars. Show me all of your old and new scars. Take this fucking chance and be mine in this life and time.

Without you is not a good reality for me. Help me rise above El Mundo Malo, and exist in El Mundo Bueno. Help me exist where I was meant to be. And I'll do the same for you.

I Want...

I know there are comments. And I love that some of you still take the time to leave me notes. Honestly, I'm on a good dose of sensory overload and I haven't read them all, but I will respond in some way. Eventually. I promise. Because I really do appreciate your words.

I want to know exactly how you like your coffee

the little things that piss you off

the moments that make you smile

I want to know what your favorite food is.

I want to know what your darkest fears are.

I want to feel

to see

to know

all of the things about you that you thought no one could ever fucking love

and love you anyways.

I want to know what wounded you and trace your scars 

I want to breathe with you

and float inside your mind

to follow the trails of your dreams through the rain

and watch the world go insane.

I want to know what your favorite smell is

what you think when you're not sleeping

the dreams you have of me

I want to know what your favorite tea is

to feel

to see

to know

all of the things about you that you thought no one could ever fucking love

and love you anyways.

I want to touch your soul

and know completely this feeling of being whole. 

Another

I know that I have a lot of comments to reply to. I love you all for them, and I'm sorry I haven't responded to them.

My life is a shitshow of epic proportions at the moment. Seriously. But strange and beautiful events occur in a storm.

In the midst of the melee, something happened that I didn't see coming. Well, I did see it coming, but I certainly refused to accept the extent to which she was going to crash into my life.

She was there. It was there. The quiet undercurrent of a raging sea. I tried to ignore it. This was never a path I truly contemplated, the "not just for fun" path.

She's contemplating. We are more complicated than just two or three. We are the dynamic we exist within, a dynamic she has not really seen lain bare.

I didn't see her coming. She was there. The feeling was there. I denied its extent for as long as I could.
But what is life on the safe road? Life, love,being, these glorious messy circumstances we call life...They often exist beyond that which we define as our comfort zone.

I know...I'm a hot mess. I'm way to far beyond denial to pretend that I am not!

What is a Queen on the Board?

In chess, a lot of emphasis tends to be placed on the queen as the most powerful piece. Yet she has one purpose, and one purpose only--the safety of her king, which often ultimately is defined by the downfall of the opposing king. Her king is her purpose, her sacrifice relevant only in relation to him.

What is a queen on the board without the king? A figurehead to make the other pieces believe that the game goes on after checkmate? She has no real purpose, no meaningful moves. She exists merely as a piece on a checkered board, with a few brokenhearted pieces left at her side. But not the one piece which gives purpose to her position and existence, not the one piece which defines the moves made by all other pieces.

Tomorrow I will open the building as I usually do, for the first time ever, not on the phone with him. I will step through the doorway into the building he designed and which he will never step foot in again. I will write a quote on the board that one of his employees wanted to post but didn't because they were afraid to get in trouble. I will likely be fired soon anyways, and a queen who has already lost the king has nothing left to lose.

I will approach the vaults in silence of the morning, knowing that each time I open them may be the last, soon enough to be their keeper no more. As so many times before, I shall spin the heavy tumblers and caress their cold solid steel with my other hand, gently requesting that they yield their treasures to me. I will give the gentle tug one gives an object that is considerably larger and stronger than themselves, and watch them swing slowly open.

After the vaults open, I will disarm the security system related to the part of the building that was all his and change into my uniform. Each step will be nearly the same as the many steps taken so many times before. Except that this time I will go through a different doorway and sit in the silence of one of his rooms, with the quiet humming of fans and the fruits of his labor. And I will cry.

I will cry for the moves made, the pieces sacrificed, the lost pieces still on the board, and the wagered dreams.
I will cry for being a queen who no longer has a king on the board, my sacrifice made pointless by his fall.
As I stand on the board of his design, among the decimated remnants of his soldiers, I will say goodby to all that he built, knowing that he poured his heart and soul into the very walls, and that each day there is very likely my last.

I Whispered

I have set a few ramblings to auto-post this week, so know that I have not suddenly started ignoring comments, I'll just likely have to catch with everyone on the weekend.

I did something that I never voluntarily of my own accord done--I talked. And I begged.

I whispered my dreams and my fears, my musings and the feeling of him. I scratched and bit and begged him to hurt me. I whispered about the puzzle piece we always held so dear, perhaps now the missing link to that click we are striving for outside of us. I whispered about how we are better living M/s and why I run, about how I can feel the beast and sense his need.

He used me. Chewed me up and spit me out. Not so silent in the night we met in our passionate rage, a physical fight I lost with pained grace.

And when I could go no further, he pushed me more.
I whispered my fears and desires, for the first time ever offering verbal acknowledgement of the flickering in his eyes, the starving beast nipping at the edges of control.

I begged for pain and it came. I begged for it to stop and it did not.
Say what you will, masochist or not, pain makes everything else go away. For the first night in a very long time, I did not dream of work. In fact, I did not dream at all.

Why Are You Mine?

It was an inopportune moment for a quiz. Well, for me anyways--he seemed to think that the timing was quite appropriate.
I hate answering questions in the middle of sex. I mean, I'm no good at it during a whipping or other such event, but it doesn't kick me out of my head-space the same as it does during sex.

Why are you mine?

It was a valid question. It is a valid question.

I flailed. If it was a graded test I would have bombed it with flying colors.

The truth, the obvious reason, was there floating on the edges, so close that I couldn't see it.

Because I need to be.

Of course, this becomes 21 questions terribly fast and "Why are you mine?" would morph into "Why do you need to be mine?"

Because of who you are, because of who I am, because of who we are. Because of what we need to be.

That' a slippery slope--each and every one of those answers could easily lead to another question.

Once upon a time, the answer might have been because I didn't know how to be anything else. I have recently learned how to be something else, and I'm not loving it.
That woman who sets a crew down in front of a whiteboard and walks them through compliant logging, that woman who spends hours on inventory, who people seem to think has answers, who spends hours of overtime every week trying to get out the door and back home (I'm an employers dream for salaried employees. Not so great for me).
I have learned to be the woman who runs around plugging the holes of need and compliance in a desperate attempt to stop the hemorrhaging of a multi-million dollar business, on a salary that, while good, is laughable given the position. And I watch him do the same.

I have learned how to be something else.
I know how to be something else. I am still unsure of what that something is, but it is there and it is all-consuming, leaves no room for breathing, no space for simply being.

Simply put, the answer to, "Why are you mine?" is that being his is what makes me happy. The one thing in this world that makes me complete.

To Be Great...

I want to be great again.
With him. I want us to be great.

I no longer care about being great at what we do--after more than a month of 60 plus hour weeks with no end in sight, I'll settle for mere survival.

We're okay. But when you know what it is to be truly mind-blowingly great, "okay" is a poor substitute.

I am not who I was. If you asked our employees, all of them would say they think I sleep at work. Some might even claim that I never existed outside of that place--that I was created in those rooms, and am as much a part of the facility as the walls themselves.

Maybe I am, but I was not. And I want to be great again.

People are the pulse of any facility, and you can feel them as they go about their daily duties.
Survival.
I am part of the heartbeat which keeps the pulse going, part of the brain which coordinates all of the moving parts, molecules of blood in the veins through which the pulse is felt. Every day, the goal is survival.

Perhaps one day that crazy organism will be great. Perhaps it will not.

Yet still...

With him. I want us to be great. Him and I.

I found a Space...

I haven't put in this many hours since I was 16, and I've never drowned in responsibility like I am now.
It's kicking my ass. I almost quit, but then I thought about what would happen to the people. Our wonderful, overworked staff who trickle in every morning and work until they can't see straight. What happens to them if people like me quit? The business sinks and they don't have a job to drag themselves to in the morning.
And so I get up and go back for more.
But I still want to quit. I miss my babies. I miss life.

One of the interesting an annoying things about being a manager is that everyone thinks that they know how it should be done. There is an often surprising lack of appreciation for being provided with solutions an a path to follow. It's not as easy as it sounds to choose and provide those paths in an industry that forges its own trails as it goes.

My job has so many facets, sometimes it makes me feel ill...

I am responsible for vaults and the products stored in them. I have had a love/hate relationship with the vaults. The first time I had to open one, it took me an hour. Those vaults were the first thing in the facility to bring me to tears.
In my life, I have found that one forms relationships with places. Mostly those magical outside places that resonate with the soul in some way.
The vaults are old, they have a somewhat unknown history, and before me, they had a keeper. It is likely that they have had multiple keepers in their quiet years of watching over the things which people deem to be of importance, with their limited access and concrete ceilings behind two foot thick doors.
I am the next keeper of the vaults. At the moment, I am one of only a few people who can even access them, and I am the only one working in them. They are quiet in the constant insanity of desperate activity which surrounds them.
These old vaults have a soul of their own, and had many keepers before me. They are silent in their purpose, watching over that which they have been entrusted to guard.
I had a moment yesterday, the kind of moment I have only ever experienced in magical wooded places devoid of people. In that moment, I found a space here where I belonged. That sounds small, but I have never escaped the feeling of not belonging in this not so new place we moved to a year ago.

The vaults watch, silent guardians of valuable things. I became their keeper in more than title alone, and those cold concrete walls with their steel doors and complicated combinations held me in their silence for a moment as their own. For the vaults to be mine, I had to become theirs, like a promise to a place, a small moment in space.
As things settle and staffing becomes less of an issue, and the vaults fill to capacity, I will spend a rising amount of time in them. I'm looking forward to it, that place where I fit. I miss the cage that one feels so strongly when one has time to immerse themselves in M/s. We are still what we have always been, and always will be. But our everything is directed at and given to the world right now.
In a way, those vaults are becoming a safe place for me in the insanity. I will be their keeper and they will hold my secrets, absorbing the quiet, serious conversations within their walls, watching those in charge as we whisper out our issues and fight through the tears that exist because it is all ultimately about people, and people feel and bleed, cry and need, people are people.

While making a somewhat extensive appearance in my job description, the vaults are only a facet of what I do. Yet somehow, in some small moment, I found my place and an unwritten title which fits me. I am, and will indefinitely remain, the keeper of the vaults.
Vaults are like M/s. They are a space of their own, almost outside of time. Safe, quiet to the depths of their soul. A space inside the storm.

50 Shades of Grey

So I never did read the books, but I finally got to watch the movie. Normally, I'm a book girl all the way, but I have realized that my life's reading is going to consist of state codes and SOP's (for me, that admission was tantamount to accepting that the sun won't rise tomorrow).

I don't know what I was expecting, but I was disappointed. Maybe I was looking for it to rekindle something in me, and it certainly did lead to some realizations, just not in the manner I had thought that it would.

Since I like to file my complaints before anything else...

Could they have picked any two characters with less chemistry? I mean seriously, the spark between them was tantamount to my attraction to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink--c'mon baby lets get it on, you know you want to do me!
With a playroom that cool, how come they're hardly ever in it?
On what planet does a dom spend that much time going down on a sub and she never ever ever reciprocates??
Who was really supposed to be in charge? From where I'm standing, it sure looked a hell of a lot like her.
Where exactly was the D/s? Hottest moment in the whole thing was when he made her eat. Seriously.
Her character made me want to beat her myself, and normally that's just not my bent--she was a raging brat.
According to Alpha, "Mr. Grey is a pussy with consistency issues and a serious lack of self control"...His commentary would have been quite annoying if I hadn't agreed with him.
What exactly is with the implication that Grey is the way he is because there's something deeply wrong with him, due to past abusive experiences? I found her mission to fix him painfully annoying. For me, that is one of the attractions of a dominant--you don't "fix" them, you don't change them, you don't make them what they're not. They are who they are, they want what they want, and they do what they do. As a sub, you accept that and allow yourself to be molded to fit whatever shape they take, somehow fitting the acceptance of that molding into the knowledge that nobody else will accept you for who you are in quite the same way.

For me, a big part of D/s is that acceptance of who someone is beyond all the trappings of what people think that we should be.

I wonder at the mass appeal the story seems to have. I was a bit shocked by how tame it was.

Enter realizations...

Tame. 50 Shades of Grey was painfully tame, and dare I say, not far beyond the borders of vanilla. I get that maybe it was a whole, "introduce her gently" thing, and it seems to have been somewhat of an awakening phenomenon for a lot of women, but still...I don't really get it.

Maybe I was disappointed in what I perceived as a distinct lack of actual D/s in the story and maybe I was hoping for it to spark something in me that has lain quiet through these last months of insanity. It didn't do that. But it did show me that maybe I'm not as far gone as I feel because there's still more D/s in a moment of my life than in an hour of that story. So for that, despite my disappointment, I do have an appreciation for 50 Shades of Grey.

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.

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.