Dark Waters
Jun. 18th, 2003 11:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenstormOh, but this is seduction.
The SO makes me feel interesting. The Exotic makes me feel needed. The Juggler, now: he makes me feel wanted, and sometimes he even makes me feel liked.
What sort of a thing is this? What sort of a way to treat me is this? I'm not some exotic creature, wierd and strange, to be treated warily and watched. I'm not some dark goddess to be held apart with awe and worshipped from afar. I'm just a person, really, not very much unlike anyone else, and he's asked me if I'd like to go biking Friday.
I don't think I can explain this to you, except perhaps to say: this hasn't happened before in a very long time, if it ever has. I'm accustomed to taking what I wanted, not having it offered to me as if it were something the other person had wanted before I did. I'm not accustomed to having my presence, not demanded or taken for granted or assumed or hoped for, but simply asked for.
When I first met the SO he broke through all those shields I'd had for so long by being brutally constant. He had a silken hammer and he never stopped pounding on the plexiglass with it; I had to trust, eventually, that he really was what he seemed to be and when I did those shields broke and there I was, really alive.
When I met the Exotic I gave that back.
Now the Juggler's found a velvet-cased scalpel and he's slicing into some of those deep secret sacred areas that, after all, may be no more than simple desire to be wanted on some sort of an equal and a ...kindred is too strong a word, but that level.
Understand that this is immensely frightening for me. Understand, too, that I really don't want to fight it. I want to walk into the dark waters until they cover my eyes and at some point I'll be forced to breathe. We'll only need to see if they drown me or not. I don't think they will. People haven't drowned me, yet. Only my own refusal to breathe when I was afraid has.
Does this frighten you? I'm such a changeable creature in the end, some core tucked away invisible to you and here on the outside all you can see is countless layers of peoples' fingerprints, your own and others, little shapings made by collisions over the ages that have nothing whatsoever to do with the core. Do you wish to shape me? Do you wish to see your own fingerprints more than another's? Do you wish me to remain unchanged, a sculpture hard as stone laid out for worship from afar because a hug would shatter the bones of any who tried it?
You really can't ever own another person. You can only love them, and sometimes they might let you look in.
In all incongruity I must add that the perfect red shrub rose is named Sevillana and I need at least six of them to landscape the front of The Other House.
The SO makes me feel interesting. The Exotic makes me feel needed. The Juggler, now: he makes me feel wanted, and sometimes he even makes me feel liked.
What sort of a thing is this? What sort of a way to treat me is this? I'm not some exotic creature, wierd and strange, to be treated warily and watched. I'm not some dark goddess to be held apart with awe and worshipped from afar. I'm just a person, really, not very much unlike anyone else, and he's asked me if I'd like to go biking Friday.
I don't think I can explain this to you, except perhaps to say: this hasn't happened before in a very long time, if it ever has. I'm accustomed to taking what I wanted, not having it offered to me as if it were something the other person had wanted before I did. I'm not accustomed to having my presence, not demanded or taken for granted or assumed or hoped for, but simply asked for.
When I first met the SO he broke through all those shields I'd had for so long by being brutally constant. He had a silken hammer and he never stopped pounding on the plexiglass with it; I had to trust, eventually, that he really was what he seemed to be and when I did those shields broke and there I was, really alive.
When I met the Exotic I gave that back.
Now the Juggler's found a velvet-cased scalpel and he's slicing into some of those deep secret sacred areas that, after all, may be no more than simple desire to be wanted on some sort of an equal and a ...kindred is too strong a word, but that level.
Understand that this is immensely frightening for me. Understand, too, that I really don't want to fight it. I want to walk into the dark waters until they cover my eyes and at some point I'll be forced to breathe. We'll only need to see if they drown me or not. I don't think they will. People haven't drowned me, yet. Only my own refusal to breathe when I was afraid has.
Does this frighten you? I'm such a changeable creature in the end, some core tucked away invisible to you and here on the outside all you can see is countless layers of peoples' fingerprints, your own and others, little shapings made by collisions over the ages that have nothing whatsoever to do with the core. Do you wish to shape me? Do you wish to see your own fingerprints more than another's? Do you wish me to remain unchanged, a sculpture hard as stone laid out for worship from afar because a hug would shatter the bones of any who tried it?
You really can't ever own another person. You can only love them, and sometimes they might let you look in.
In all incongruity I must add that the perfect red shrub rose is named Sevillana and I need at least six of them to landscape the front of The Other House.
