I write for me, and yet I no longer ever filter. Reading may hurt, so don't. Writing is essential, if reading yields understanding then better.
There is an art made from pigments and water and oil. The oil keeps the pigments separate from the water and from each other, an agent mixes, the media takes an impression of the mixture, saving it in the colors that form from the pigments. As temporary as an easter egg, intermediate as stationery, permanent as the image etched forever in the mind of the artist.
What's on the top?
All swirled together, what to choose, what stands out.
The fear has been building for a lifetime, formed from bits, many thrown out as insignificant.
Yes, there can still be fear when there is trust, if the fear comes from inside.
I touched Flar. Friday night, I went to sleep after shedding tears, tears that I'd tried to hold back from him, tears he didn't cause, tears I thought he had no understanding about the cause. He held me, he whispered to me, kindness and love in his voice. Only care, no judgement. In the morning, I touched him. Stroked his back, scritched, then felt lower. He had said it would be okay that I had only to reach out, and here I was in no condition to complete anything I started, but he touched me.
And woke the fear.
I can't pull, but I can receive. And the energy threatens a door that should stay closed, it keeps in the blackness the darkness. Passion is dark, full of desire that is no mere wanting a need that is all encompassing and unending. Madness.
Fear of madness.
There was, for a long time, control. More and more control learned over time that encased more and more behind the door.
Release should be joy.
In the supposed wisdom of my far off youth, I knew that no one was normal, that to chase after normality is to deny ones self, an escape from reality that leads to madness. To embrace oneself and differences is to feel to live to breathe.
There was an easy, care-free time. Loved by all, any for the taking, the time only for pleasure and joy and ecstasy. But ecstasy is madness.
For a long time now, I've held the madness inside, shaped it, controlled it, shared it with so very few. Intensity too dangerous for such treatment. How to explain that my body is on fire from nerve-tip to nerve-tip, that orgasm is merely some formal expression of release, but that for me the release is from consciousness, from all control. Only safe with someone who can take that control from me, be responsible for us both, keep our minds safe.
Calling myself a switch was a simplistic, convenient label. Thirst for blood, not the taste, but the energy of it, pulsing fresh from arteries, shedding life. The feel of flesh tearing apart under nails, tearing and ripping. Knives a necessity, for skin is much stronger than one would imagine, and teeth such dull tools. Twisting and rending and feeling my muscles strain against power and strength.
I know it hasn't always been like this.
I remember laughter.
Gushing with joyful fluids and sharing feelings of pleasure and unity and wanting it to never end.
The madness is need, and feeding it is an addiction.
One can stop smoking.
One can't stop eating.
I evaluate my health by many measures, some by accomplishment, some by serenity, but is there need for passion?
Passion that lures me, leads, leaves me wanting ever more.
I was afraid of what lay behind the barrier, and I find too many have the key to unlocking that barrier. Tired. Facing the daunting task of self-control.
I've wallowed in the luxury of turning that responsibility over to another for far too long now.