I need something to do. I need something to occupy my mind with. To make these things go away. These little fetterings of hope and anguish and angst and jealousy and general hormones that won't leave me alone.
There was once a person who loved to read. She read and read and thought about writing, but in the end, her writings were far too disturbing for most anyone else to read, so she just continued readong others' thoughts and ideas, absorbing them. She loved to watch people and she always wanted to regain that feeling of detached curiousity, of contentment and learning, that she felt while watching the myriad of interesting couples walking along the Castro. She also loved people who, for one reason or another, did not want to or simply could not return those feelings. So she buried herself in reading again, and tried to ignore those people she loved, because sometimes, as hard as she tried to stay detached and observant and just not care, it hurt too much for her to bear. So sometimes she cried. And sometimes she just added more bricks to the wall she tried to create around herself. To justify the wall to others because for some reason she seemed to still want other people's company, regardless of if she cared about them or not, she made a garden. A pretty garden of sunshine and warmth and lillies against the banks of a pond with little coy fish swimming in it where you could skip stones or play with kittens, and it was dazzling and shiny and distracting. No one noticed the wall anymore. But then she couldn't help herself one day, and she walked outside of her little wall and garden, and found herself reluctant to return after giving in to her weakness. She loved again, and hurt again, and when she was alone again she retreated back into her garden and behind her little wall. Every now and then, she would lean out of a window and pretend she was outside again, letting her weakness drive here again, and when she was alone, and she went back behind her wall and sat in her study, alone, surrounded by books. And she would lose herself in her books for a while. Eventually the elements would wear down and scratch and erode her little wall until it crashed down, but for now it would hold in her roving mind as she dreamed. And read. And fantasized about being able to live the dreams that she dreamt, like the stories that she read.
That's my little fairy tale. Perhaps there is a lot of self pity, and no small amount of self flattery, but while I'm no Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty, I know what I want, and I wonder why I build myself these walls. Maybe I'm just as stupid and hypocritical as the people I so despise, and I'm just to stubborn to accept it fully. I know I'm a hypocrite... but it's a whole different matter to fully accept it than just to understand it somewhat. I think I like making life difficult for me, simply so I can complain about it. Or make other people feel pity for me...? Pity is a horrid feeling, though. Degrading and altogether non-satisfying. So hollow. So... lonely. Not even the good degredation that you might expect from a D/s relationship. Just.... Hollow.
I think I'm posting this to the wrong blog. Oh well. Maybe I want people to read this. Maybe I'm just that desperate for... attention? Acknowledgement? Desire? ...Companionship? I don't know. I'm lonely. And annoyed, because I'm angsty and affected by the fact that I'm by myself. But I still stay aloof. I think maybe I"m just a sucker for punishment. I should talk to one of the Mme or Mistresses, and figure out if I'm really as dominant as I thought I was. Maybe that's my problem.
.alieu
