(no subject)
the telling of this story, this war & peace-sized novel of me is a process, one that refines itself the more often I press words into these blank spaces. I shine a light into long-forgotten corners and illuminate shadows and realize that those skins do not fit me the same as they used to. I remember them fondly, wrongly, sweetly, breathlessly.
this is an attic packed floor to ceiling with trunks full of someone else's party dresses, history, words and music (I wish to burn it to the ground but don't want to anger the ghosts which linger.) the more I tell this story, the more I forget. they say that our memories are just our brains remembering the last time we remembered that particular memory. in a way, I find that to be incredibly sad (because I'm sure I've forgotten more than I thought I ever would), but also reassuring. given enough time, I will not remember why I ever thought saying some of the things that I have was so important. I won't remember why certain things have taken up so much space or caused me so much anguish.
having said all of that, sometimes there are things about myself I like to remember. but in so doing I also have to remember the context. there were times when alongside feeling used and wasted, I also felt empowered and beautiful. I remind myself of the wantonness of sex outdoors (his truck. an orchard. over a boat submerged in a sandbar in the river in full view had anyone cared to look) and how thrill of his admission that I was the only one he'd was willing to engage in ahem public displays was so great I could have screamed. I was the only one of his conquests who he could trust with that . . . To think about it now, I'd kinda like to slap myself.
Despite how the above reads, I haven't been thinking much about D lately. Could be because I'm getting further and further away from that place, because I've been getting any thoughts of him out of my head, or because I'm truly leaning into what's ahead is way better than what's behind. I'll take any combination of the three, really. I barely remember what he looked like if I try to imagine his face and the memories specifically of him are fading. There are some things that I probably always will hold on to just for the sake of how I felt when they took place but I know with time, the sharp specifics of those will fade, too.
When I have thought of him, it is to wonder why I was ever willing to pursue a bondage relationship with a man that even then I didn't quite trust. Would he have the knowledge and skill? Sure. Would he stretch me out of my comfort zone? Certainly. Would he command my obedience? Ah, yes. But on the flip side, he could have also done real damage, if not physically then emotionally. I thought he could have helped me find a place, to fly even, in knowing that I wasn't alone. I wasn't his and he wasn't mine and the connotations of that are really now making themselves apparent. It's been the blessed relief of time that has allowed me to see that I enjoyed the chase more than the catch. I've never been so glad to not wear a collar in my life.
Now, though? Well, there is a distinct lack. Perhaps it's time to write a new chapter and fit into a new skin.