I’ve been clicking around, paranoia spinning, trying to determine what the number of page views mean. I stopped by the Google search console to see if there was anything new. You have a good point with “shrine of conceit.” I’m sorry, Mistress. I still don’t know quite what appeals to you. Do you want to hear sweet sentiments, confessions of being helpless in being bound to you? Do you want to know what goes on in my head besides you? Do you like the raw honesty I think I’ve captured a few times?
Okay, so my day. The dumpsters are full so I can’t get the trash out till the truck comes at 6am. I don’t like applying for jobs in the middle of the night. The rest is like I laid out. I think I’m going to need a third dexedrine.
You worry about me. You must. You worry because how I feel is predicated on all-too-real fantasy. You worry for yourself, certainly. And maybe some for me. You probably worry more that you won’t live up to what I believe you are. That’s really not a concern. If memory serves, who I think you are paints onto you very well. I’m sad because you don’t love who you were with me when you were perfect.
I’m feeling afraid and hurt. I might seem distant for two or three days. I do this every other month for as far back as I can remember. Don’t doubt that I love you and that you’re the only thing worth wanting in life too me if . . . I guess it’s already started. I can tell you what it feels like then, if you were hear, I could self-hypnotize and you could explain how it’s wrong to have those feelings as a reaction. I’m angry at you because you know something that has no word for it but stretches back farther in my past than I can see, but I’m probably wrong. I’m angry at you that you think it’s right, and I’m probably right. I wouldn’t love you as I do otherwise. The tether between my heart and your possession of me is strained and hurts. Sharing that turns me on. Perhaps you feel reluctance because you know my desire to pour into you and know you to the point that I can see the world through your eyes, with your heart. I’ll always love you, Mistress Lea. I write that and say it so often and I suppose I keep hoping the words that surround it lend it additional credence.
Lend sense to my world, Mistress.
