I wrote the first version of this a long time ago. Or at least, it sure feels like a long time ago. A hundred lifetimes in love years, yet the day still is crystal clear in my memory.
Summer heat. Back patio. Eyes, like rivers that day.
I recall a similar feeling overwhelming me that I do right now, at this moment, as I once again found the words within myself to say what I felt, which unfortunately for me, is never a problem, as you will see.
Rarely do my posts intentionally never get reblogged by me; I try to give my readers reruns so that people don’t have to dig too deep, and new material is there for the next generation. It’s like cheating at the blogging game, but I have so many original posts that I could post a new one every hour and a month would pass before you saw it again.
This piece — it was never shown twice.
It represented a very painful day for me, so why bother reminding people, or even myself, where I was at a low point. I’d never read it again, so I thought. I didn’t even tag this one, intentionally hoping it would get lost in a sea of five thousand other posts.
I recall the outreach that day. The support. The people that encouraged me to stay the course. I recall a lot that day.
It is ironic I suppose that every single word below could have been written today and it wouldn’t change a thing. The storyline is slightly altered; the characters of support have different handles in some cases. But the meat of the story is no different.
I love you more, now.
So I guess I could “Select All” and make it bold and all CAPS. Maybe next time I’ll make it red.
Though I have edited it, it started something like this…
Writing — I fear is the albatross around my neck.
My inner voice put into words and then cast into the unknown, daily I pen my thoughts effortlessly, never unable to transcribe how I feel inside into written form.
My gift and my curse.
You see, I feel.
I feel everything. I feel passion for life and love. I feel passion and love for romance and a connection. I feel love for parenting. I feel love for my family. I feel a passion for excellence and hard work. I feel pain and suffering, immensely. I feel when others suffer. I feel anger. I feel prayers.
I feel the love of the people that read this blog and pains that they go through. I feel it when they reach out. I feel when they feel. I feel a kinship to the people in my life that care. I feel the void, as I do right now, in January as I did in September, of the person that cares most. I feel like not talking about that part though, though I have been more transparent the second time around.
I hope that does not bother you, Kitten, though I doubt that you will see this.
I don’t know what to say anymore, other than to say, I don’t know what to say.
But back to how I feel. My ability to feel everything has always been present, even as a child and in adolescence, and anybody who knows me, knows this thing about me very well. The better you know me; the more you know it.
They recognize that above most others who they know, they can see that I am alive inside. You know this better than anyone, my love. Better than anyone who has ever known me in my entire life.
You knew it then; you really know it now.
For I am — Alive — in a way that most men just are not. Never indifferent. Never emotionless. Never, ever lacking passion, for whatever it is.
I would rather die than be apathetic.
I may carry a masculine torch in life, with a calm and dependable demeanor, but I never once would assume weakness and showing emotion are similar things. They are quite the opposite in fact. It takes bravery to be vulnerable and expressive. Lately, I seem to do it in front of thousands. I am in many ways, blessed, for I feel things so profoundly and am fortunate enough to know how to express it. Not always is it a blessing though.
My curse — my gift — is that I write about what I feel.
I always write about what I feel, whether I want to or not. If I try not to, I just end up writing anyway. Just like I am right now. Just like then. Just like tonight, and yesterday, and the day before.
My albatross — my horrifically painful burden — is not that I write about what I feel, but it is that somebody else has to read it.
This, above anything else, is my stupid fucking albatross.
Some days, like today, I just wish I could kill my bird.
I don’t write for the readers per se; I do it for me, and for her. I am never seeking vindication or even a mention of what I wrote. It’s for the moment in which I publish when a sense of relief becomes of me.
A piece of me, given away, for a peace of me.
This anonymous forum is my Ancient Mariner; my Rime is my words.
Most often, I write about what I feel through the prism of a D/s lens because I have found in life, that this is the pinnacle of the concept of feeling. I found this in you, my sweet angel, as we swam in each other in the deepest ways two souls can. I found, when you gifted your emotional and physical submission to me, I’d feel emotions in the highest order. I felt most, as I exerted my Dominance over you, witnessing in you an equal feeling of complete and total bliss, eyes locked on mine, as three days was the morning.
Every conversation with you leading up until this point drew me closer to you, all so that I could express myself in the purest form known to man, an absolute passion and unfiltered admiration for your very existence. Our bond solidified in the physical manifestation of the feelings that we carried in these very moments.
I see D/s intimacy as the apex of feeling in life.
I found it, in you. I feel it, with only you.
I am found, as a man, upon devoting my physical form to express myself to the one I feel most for, in the way that is most passionate. Upon making your body and mind experience the most unbelievable euphoria you will ever know, all driven from the ambition of my feelings for you.
When not melancholy, reading this kind of stuff gets girls panties wet.
This makes my inner monologue alluring to a certain segment of the population, seeing the emotional formation of the rawest side of a capable and loving man, decorated with intellect in the fuck-me-please range and sarcasm to make you giggle when you shouldn’t.
An undeniable adeptness at breaking a woman down physically through a plethora of orgasms like few men, if any, have ever done to most my readership. I paint these pictures to let them know that this world is very real and it does exist and that you, whoever you are, should never settle for less because you only get one life — so fucking live it right.
This passion that I write of is why my blog gains thousands of new followers every month. New viewers into the intimate and perverted mind of a man who just downright feels for life.
But remember the title of this piece. My curse is that I write about what I feel, and sometimes, what I feel, is not something I want to feel.
My pen is my heart.
There is no other driver. Everything else, from blog growth, interaction, or advice is all secondary at best. I write because I have to.
As said a hundred times now, I write about what I feel. Be it love for working hard, the passion for the fire within single moms, the alpha woman, the disdain for emotionless and selfish weak men, and yes, most often the power I gain when I stare right into the eyes of you, my sweet orange sky, as I shove my hard cock right up inside you and watch you shudder in orgasmic elation.
Nevertheless, every word I write here is always written with my heart.
But today, in January, so that we are clear — at this very moment and all fucking week — I just would rather be a person who doesn’t feel at all.
Anything at all. Nothing.
Who is incapable of feeling. I wish I were that guy right now. So many men seem to be; I just am not lucky enough I guess.
Unfortunately though for me, I’ve never felt more emotions in my life. That was true months ago; it is far truer today. For I’ve had months and months more time now falling in love with you, and each day we grew closer, compounding our passion and friendship like exponential mathematics.
But still, I just wish so bad I could kill my albatross.
I wish I didn’t have to write. But I do because it is who I am and that part I just have to live with. One day, I hope I never write again. Some days, like this one, it is just so painful to do it. I am not strong enough today to carry this albatross; it is just so heavy.
But rather than try and convince myself to do what I know I cannot do anyway, my albatross will be my new best friend. It seems that the position is vacant now. Yet when I wrote this the first time, I didn’t think I had the strength to kill my bird, but this time around, I am feeling far braver. I somehow feel as Romeo drinking his poison, romantically offering my sacrifice. It just feels so romantic, for some reason, and as I said before, I tend to be a man driven by the feel.
But for now, I guess I will write. For now, I will just keep on feeding my albatross. I guess.
Also published on Medium.