Work in progress :)

I had retreated from my corner. A risky move, I knew that already. But, the tantalizing myriad of images I saw sang sweetly. It was too enticing. I remembered the old days. I remembered the terror I saw in the eyes of my brothers and sisters. I remembered the overwhelming relief when I found that perfect corner to call my home. I had never been a very daring sort. I found comfort in security. Not an odd concept when one thought about it, but not an adventurous one either. I adored the encompassment that my line had afforded the corner. I could sit at the bottom of my white pyramid and feel like a king. But, the comfort had started wearing thin. It was the colours that triggered my curiosity.
They were so different from the white I had loved so violently in days past. Now everywhere I looked were colors and shapes, textures and smells, and voices. My space now had another occupant. It wasn’t in my corner but it was in the space surrounding it. Sometimes, my space even had two occupants. They were giants. They were mighty. They were powerful. But, even the threat of the giants was not enough to assuage my rampant curiosity. The colours overshadowed all.
And, so, my voyage began. My line was strong and steady to begin with. I could see the giant in the corner of several of my eyes. The more colourful of the two giants, I thought it to be an ally. It gave me a name for the white—“wall.” Of course, I learned the word when the giants had disputed over it. But, I felt apt to believe the colourful one.
A breeze through the room sent a shiver through my line. I swayed, I swung, my legs dancing on this “wall.” I regained my composure, though it had been shaken. A chill ran through my body and suddenly I yearned for my white pyramid. I was no longer on a path for the most vivid colours; I was now headed towards a much lighter colour. However, this colour I now faced reminded me of my “wall.” An expanse, but this one had textures. It had ridges and valleys, mountains and plateaus. It looked.. soft. So unlike the cold hard wall, I now clung to desperately, despite my line.
In my state of nervousness, I hardly noticed when the giant’s voice changed. Suddenly, it seemed scared. This made me scared. What, oh what, could the giant be fearful of. And, if it was fearful, then I must surely be in line for a terrible surprise. I watched apprehensively as the giant fled from the lovely soft expanse, my heart cold with dread. I watched it pace nervously. And, then, flabbergasted, I observed it facing me, coming towards me, objects clutched at the ends of its extremities.
All of a sudden, all noise around me was muffled except for the beating of my poor frightened heart. That echoed inside this terrifying prison. I hardly had time to note the distorted view that now enclosed me, before something came hurtling toward me breaking my line and the grip I had on my wall. I tumbled clumsily onto the hard clear rounded surface which still distorted all my views beyond any recognition. I felt motion, we were moving. I looked towards the open end of this cold prison and I saw colours up close like I had never dreamed. It hurt me more than any words could ever express that the colours would have broken my line. It occurred to me dimly that it was not the colours who had broken my line. No, it was the colourful giant! That traitor! It was my ally. I bet my white isn’t even called “wall.” That malicious colourful giant has trapped me! Before I could finish my reproachful thoughts, we had come to a stop.
The prison tilted, sliding me down to the bottom of this cage. I immediately began scrambling at the smooth, clear sides. As I saw an object approaching the open top, my scamper became more frantic, I knew I had precious few seconds before I was trapped. The object clicked down on top of my prison. The object was shiny and off white—a nasty mockery of the white I had loved so dearly. A nasty colour for a nasty deed, I was trapped!
I gazed forlornly out of my prison in the vain hope that I might make some sense of the warped reality I was now presented with. Bitterly, I looked at the surface on which my prison had been placed, it was white. Though, no expanse I could tell that much. It was a travesty, a farcical attempt at the beauty of my white. Oh, to be in my white pyramid. What I wouldn’t give!
I had noticed the odour in my prison, though I had done nothing to ascertain the origin. As I turned away from the cold, clear cage, I felt a little leap in my heart. On the floor of my prison was a colour! A deep colour! A vibrant, lively, tactile colour! Heavier in the middle, the beads of colour extended towards the edges of my enclosure. The odour was strong. Pungent, as deep and full as the colour itself, I felt my head spin slightly and wondered if this strange prison would be my tomb. As I wondered this, I was surprised that I did not still feel the same panic I had hitherto felt. Perhaps the effects of the odour, of the colour!
It looked sticky to the touch. But, in the same way the colours had tempted me before, this colour tempted me now. I held out a hesitant extremity and touched the very tip to the pool of colour. It stuck. I panicked. I pulled back roughly and it relinquished me easily, causing me to stagger backwards. Holding my feeler to my face I saw a blob of colour at the very tip. I was overjoyed, I was colourful! Oh, I could bathe in this! Oh the bliss of it all. Every thought of my capture had been thrown to the side with the discovery of this gooey colour.
I will never know if it was the odour, or the dazzle of this that was not white, but I lifted my delicate extremity to my lips and sucked deeply, greedily. I felt dizzy. I was nauseated. I was completely overwhelmed. I wanted more. Again and again, I dipped into this sweet colour. And, again and again, I lifted it to my lips. I looked at the walls of my prison which no longer felt like the cage it had once been. I noticed that the previously warped surroundings were now spinning, around and around and around. Oh, I felt sick. I needed to lie down. Suddenly, the odour was not so sweet. I lay down and tried to close my eyes. I would sleep and this would be over when I woke up. I immediately stood up. When I closed my eyes, it felt like not only my surroundings but I was spinning as madly as.. I didn’t know. I felt so queasy. I lay down, this time keeping my eyes open. I counted the eggs of my old brothers and sisters to keep myself from losing grip. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… my eyes closed. I was asleep.

New beginnings-- take 30

This is my first blog-- unless xanga counted as a blog in which case this is probably my fifth or something ridiculous like that. Why am I doing this? Because, I need to write and my hand cramps up when I hand write things now. Quite pathetic in my opinion. But, two years out of school and I guess that is what happens. Anyway, this is potentially going to be self centered drivel for the most part.. but at least I'll be writing again. So, here goes...
I've spent the past two years on a constant voyage to happiness. I've pandered to myself. I've left a town when I felt like it. I didn't save my money nor did I squander it on material possessions. I made myself happy. And, its worked. Before moving to England, five weeks ago. I couldn't tell you the last day I went without smoking a bowl. I had my cigarettes every day and I had booze whenever I felt like it (this has stayed the same, haha) I took what substances I felt like and saw the shows I wanted to. If there was a job standing in the way of a festival, well, fuck it! I'll find another. So, its worked wonders in some ways. I am a brilliantly happy optimistic and rather numb person. I am so clinical in my retelling of the past. I've been intensely unproductive lately. I contribute a lot of that to the lack of herbs in my life. One could throw around terms such as dependent, but again fuck it. You have your anti depressants I have my greeneries. But, during the past month I've been thinking about the changes in myself in the past two years. A lot have been good. My self esteem has improved somewhat (a lot now that I have found my amazing dom and boyfriend). I am happy. I'm not stressed for the most part. I don't worry about things. But, then again, I've basically stopped writing. I've stopped creating. I can just sit around for four hours and do nothing except for drink wine and then bourbon when the wine runs out. And, so I have to wonder.. did the emotions that I considered unhealthy a few years back really need to be there in order for me to draw from them, in order for them to inspire me? I used to find such solace in writing, in expression. Now, it feels more like a chore. Not good.
And, part of me craves that dark touch of unhappiness, of discontentment. Of basking in an emotion that isn't all sunshine and rainbows. It is a weird balance that I crave. My wardrobe is a sparkle of colours now. I believe I am the only person in Chelmsford who owns a tie dye. I can't remember the need I felt four years previously to not wear a single colour, to dress in black, to have black hair, to paint my lips black and line my eyes with black eyeliner. I don't even own black eyeliner now-- its brown. My mascara-- purple. And, the colours aren't important. I'm not saying that I want to turn into a goth again. Or that I want to page through Sylvia Plath anthologies on a daily basis anymore.
I just want to feel a whole spectrum of emotions again.
This is probably one of the reasons I could never imagine myself in a vanilla relationship ever again (vanilla = not a dominant/submissive or master/slave relationship = boring. if any vanilla folk read this). I am far too enamored with the extremes that the lifestyle affords. Plus, vanilla sex is just so thoroughly not fulfilling. Again, if any vanilla folk are reading-- SO THOROUGHLY NOT FULFILLING ;) I've been feeling lately that scening is one of the only avenues I have at the moment to access my full range of emotions.
I wonder if the wounds that I have from the past few years are too fresh at the moment. Even as I sit here skirting around any sort of details my mind feels completely unprepared to even venture into accessing those painful memories. I'm scared is what I think it boils down to. But perhaps recognising that fear is a step in its own right. Listen to me justifying myself-- its like you can almost hear my inner monologue ;)
The move has been good for me though. Not even touching on the subject yet of my fucking incredible dom, it has been good for me emotionally. America was draining my spirit. Draining my creativity, my spark, my old joys. So, this blog will hopefully be my journey back to the person I used to be.. without the self harm and the sulky demeanor and the depression.