I wish I was a bear
Wrapped and warm in fur
Hidden away from winter wear
In sleep I would confer
I find that I am bare
Naked without my faith
Exposed and retreating where
Sleep becomes a wraith
I wish I had a bear
Stuffed full of love and hope
With button eyes so fair
Stable against this tightrope
I have all these wishes
And the warmth of friends that care
Full of love their dishes
My heart beats as the bear
I got the kind of news on thanksgiving day that you keep thinking you’re going to wake up to find it was just a bad dream. Mostly. I knew the possibility of it all. It shouldn’t come as a shock, but when it happens to someone you love very dearly, someone who affects so much of your life, it’s hard to get out of that denial.
Now it colors every aspect of my thoughts and I’m not sure what to write about.
If this was just a diary I would write any drivel that seeps across my addled brain. I’m kind of glad I have an audience…however small. It discourages me from wallowing in my own self pity. It still makes interesting topics difficult however.
So the answer is…write. That’s always the answer. No matter what. Write.
I remember a little way into my first year at college in 1996 I wanted to go home so I pack my shit up and I went. I want to now so bad today, but there isn’t one to go to. I don’t think there was back then either, but at least I didn’t have to worry about bills and grades. Life as a teen wasn’t so bad, but there was always an underlying dark yuck that followed me everywhere I was. Seems it still follows me. Everything is an almost…well almost everything. What do I have now?
- A wonderful healthy daughter
- A full belly
- A full tank of gas
- Rent will be paid next month at least
- A Car I love
- A man I love even if I haven’t told him that full out yet
- Friends that I love and love me
Life is good even if it isn’t perfect. One thing someone with a rough past can almost always say is that things have been worse. And if you are sitting where I’m sitting now you can say they tend to get better.
Home isn’t where the heart is or where you fall back to when you have no place to left fall. It may be for some people, and I guess home is something a little different for everyone, but for me home is where you make it. Just some days it’s a little harder to make than others, but that’s why I’m the Battle Raven.
I’m cheating. Season 12 of Diablo 3 came out and I’ve been enjoying my “free” time there. So I slacked on writing. You get a story I wrote a while ago. This story involves consensual non-consent. Sometimes that means what I have with my boyfriend: he can do anything he wants to me any time without discussing it first. I can ALWAYS call “red”, but it would take a lot. We have this arrangement because I trust him in a way I’ve never trusted anyone before. In the case of the following story it is what some might call fulfilling a rape fantasy. I don’t like calling it that because its not rape….consent is involved (red will always stop a scenario no matter what) even if it walks a fine edge. If this isn’t your thing move on. If it is….enjoy.
A few years ago I was standing at a reunion of a family that was mostly not mine. I wore capris jeans with frayed holes in them and became the subject of conversation with a preacher. The standard joke: “I just threw away a pair of jeans like that. Should have had you pay me a hundred bucks for them.” He also asked me why I would want to scar my body in reference to my tattoo. I tried to tell him they were free, but he was far to amused with himself. Honestly it should matter. Petty shit like that from “Christians” made me give up on being spiritually awakened.
At one point I decided I rocked those goddamn jeans and I’d rather be sexually awakened then whatever the fuck they thought they were. These days though I just want to….be. If someone wanted to comment on my jeans (still have them) I wouldn’t care. I honestly don’t understand why they would. It’s just clothing. Here…let me take it off if that helps ::evil grin::
When you are comfortable with who and what you are the “slings and arrows” of society stop bothering you. You don’t get pissed because someone attacks your beliefs or style. You certainly don’t get pissed if someone believes differently than you…even if it’s really fucked up. Difference becomes interesting.
This, I feel, is awake.
I’ve always had this fantasy of being tied and forced to orgasm long past the point of pleasure. For a long time I thought it was because I was a total freak. It turns out I’m normal in certain circles. A few months ago I gathered up my courage and went to a meeting point of one of those circles. Life hasn’t been the same sense. Tonight you get the story of my first scene.
I met a guy. He’s a sadist, though only because he gets pleasure from being on the top side of the slash. He takes nothing if his bottom isn’t enjoying it. I am a bottom because I thoroughly enjoy being on the receiving end. Marks make me giddy. I may very well be the yin to his yang. I don’t know that I can mark myself a masochist anymore. I am not a fan of pain at all, but I’m nearly addicted to the feeling of flying that hits you immediately after the pain subsides. The greater the pain the higher the feeling, and so I yearn to be able to take more. For now I’m only beginning.
My first scene starts in a dark corner with a fair bit of teasing while watching a small group converse at a picnic table. He whispers in my ear “do you want to try a little playing?” I indicate my desire and he leads me through the house to a front room a little away from everyone. He likes to be very public, but I’m still not quite there yet.
There are two crosses here; large X’s standing silently against a white wall. On the other wall is a small table with a radio playing the kind of music I love. If I knew nothing else about this group their taste in music would have made it for me. I stay there while he goes to grab his toy bag. There are so many words that will never mean the same to me again.
I’m nervous which I love. He takes out a pair of cuffs and secures them on my wrist before slipping off my dress. Leaving me only in my panties he locks my wrist to chains at the top of each side of one of the X’s. My first sensation is a pair of clothes pins attached to my nipples. They sting. I’m getting a little ache between my thighs thinking about it now. He starts with a light flogger made of wide soft leather. It’s more thuddy than stingy. I get remember all the toys he used on me now. Eventually he used a heavy piece of leather on my ass that left the most beautiful bruises. This is almost my favorite part.
He says he isn’t into playing when his play partner legitimately doesn’t like something and yet….I hate electricity. I’m terrified of it. He has something called a tazapper that doesn’t hurt, but it arcs quite vividly with a loud pop. It’s everything I hate about electricity and he hooked me with my back to the cross and started threatening me with it. I laughed and screamed at the same time. I managed to get my body behind the damn cross which is pretty impressive. I suppose you can honestly say I have a love hate relationship with this particular play.
Eventually I was standing breathless on the cross and he blindfolded me. I thought we were done, but the scene isn’t up to me and I would have it no other way. A collar was snapped around my neck and a leash to that. He led me in just my panties through the house to a chair in the living room. I had to dress while blindfolded.
I spent the rest of the night cuddling with him: safe, warm and on cloud nine. I can’t wait to do it again.
“They” say that the witching hour is 3am. Or maybe it was midnight. I don’t know. Hollywood and wild imaginings have mucked it up a bit. My hollow bones disagree.
The witching hour is maybe a moment when magic is easiest to summon. It may be the moment when monsters are most likely to roam. Regardless of how it manifests it is always a moment “between”.
There is a veil that protects us from the between. Most people never even know it’s there. They move through this world as if it is the only one. Some people can hear or even see through it. A few can cross it. Me? I just know it’s there.
I can feel it when the sun dies daily leaving only the strangeness of twilight. I know it in the moments before I lose the last vestiges of a dream. I am positive I’ll find it as I move from life to death so death doesn’t scare me.
I think a part of me exists on the other side of the veil. I think that’s why crows call to me and why I don’t quite feel I belong here. Maybe at one time I was a messenger between gods and men. Or maybe a guide from this world to the next. I wonder why I came here sometimes. There must be a reason. The places my mind wanders…
I’m sitting here listening to comedians. I cry 2 or 3 times a day…for no reason really. My heart feels like a vice grip is wrapped around it. My stomach has stones resting inside. I shake occasionally. The knot in my throat never quite goes away even when give in and cry.
There’s no point.
I want to give myself a gold star when I get out of bed, but really that is something I should be doing. I’m so much more than this.
And I’m nothing.
Depression sucks. I don’t have it because I’m still functioning right? But shit I don’t want to. No wait…I don’t think I can. I am side lined in my own fucking life screaming….STOP IT! Why am I even trying? It’s all going to happen again. It doesn’t matter what you do ultimately you will fail. The world will become numb to you or you to it….you’ll fade away. Stop.
Or is that the voice that lies?
When you’re depressed you can’t tell. All the rational, logical, factual sentences in the world can’t make what you feel seem less real. At first it does. Right now I can tell myself it’s going to end. It’s going to get better. If I cry and throw a fit it will be a five year old child acting out for absolutely nothing. It’s the nothing that sticks. No wonder I’m scared of things I can’t control: black holes, tidal waves, massive earth quakes. I know what’s coming and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. But I should be able to because it’s my own fucking head. I don’t get it. I wonder if this will be the one that ends me. I wonder when I’m supposed to call uncle. When am I supposed to admit I’m actually a weak useless person?
Which one is the lie?
I’m sure you can answer that question, but take a gander through my head and see just how sure you are on the other side.
The story that started a book that kick started my own world. Hoping to have a published date for the first book soon. Warning: most definitely not for kids or the easily offended.