A thick, soft blanket of fog covers everything outside, and the cool, welcoming darkness beckons to me like a lover with open arms, or better, open thighs. I want to suck in the air and feel that same coolness invade my lungs. I want to disappear into the mist with it swirling around me, making me nothing more than a shadow, a stranger out in the darkness.
I long for the vapor to tickle the hairs on my legs, my forearms.
This imposed stillness has created and fed a demon who battles for freedom from my invisible noose. It wants to see me self-destruct, gone down in my own version of flame and glory. It whispers in my ear of laziness and sends me to the mirror to see if my vanity, my pride, has dimmed without the rigor of daily exercise.
Sex with N, notwithstanding.
This restlessness, this ennui, fills me like water does a tank. My demon heats it until pressure builds and builds. I am sick of doctors, and curse myself for once again, being my own enemy, the one whose influence I should want to eliminate. How, exactly, does one eliminate the self, I ask you?
Energy is directed outward as a vent. I’ve tamed my lethal tongue successfully thus far, my temper with equal success, but discontentment is written across me as if tattooed upon my chest. It’s consuming to my thought process and books, my food, have lost their luster and appeal.
I think of running. I dream of running. I can taste the flavor of running on my tongue when I wake, still as I do, at 4 am, though permission is given for 6 because of its absence. So I fuck.
I wake N and crawl upon her and inside her like I wanted the fog this morning to do to me. I invade, I coat, I devour. I fuck with energy that feeds off that demon, that pressure. I sweat, I bleed and I leave bite marks upon her skin that mirror the footprint I would have left on the dewy grass and dead leaves of the path outside. I consume.
And N empties me. I feed upon her open thighs. And her mouth. Her tits. Her cunt. I taste her and it stills and quiets the want of ….. anything else.
Still, when I walk out to my car, and look at the gray sky, the traces of fog that linger, I want. And my fingers itch to feel the laces of my running shoes again.
~frown~ Why are you not running, D? And, for God’s sake … stop taming yourself. What is it with you men and your need to control to that depth?
elise
Comment by elise — December 19, 2008 @ 9:24 am
Assumption, elise.
-I- did not choose to restrict my running, it was restricted because of an injury. Furthermore, it was recommended that I cease all activity of a taxing nature to allow myself recovery. Sex is one area I was not willing to sacrifice, so I sacrificed running. Small thing to be able to get inside N twice a day, I think.
As to why I like to control to ‘that depth’ I would respond:
Because I can. Self-control, self-mastery needs to be a lesson well learned. Practice, even with something as limiting as say, stopping something I enjoy, keeps the skill honed, the razor sharp.
Happy writing, elise.
Comment by Daemon — December 19, 2008 @ 10:36 pm
And, although I’ve never actually heard you speak, I can almost hear the amused derision in your voice when you say, “Assumption, elise.”
Take care of yourself and that injury, sex with N notwithstanding. I utterly understand refusing to cease that particular activity. Only twice a day, hmm? Heh.
Writing … bleh. The muse is fickle. Thanks, D.
elise
Comment by elise — December 20, 2008 @ 11:48 am
Tiburón; flames, glory, your unbridled tongue.
Without those, things are dull, a muddy grey.
I do miss the beast. But it is not mine to fight off nor does it seek me.
But as dead as I feel, it could rip me to shreds and I would whisper ‘thanks’.
Comment by Liras — December 21, 2008 @ 11:42 pm
i hope you are healing, finding some peace and pray you have a most memorable holiday.
Comment by gd — December 23, 2008 @ 10:42 pm
“I’ve tamed my lethal tongue successfully thus far, my temper with equal success, but discontentment is written across me as if tattooed upon my chest.”
It is that about which my admonishment to stop taming yourself referred, silly sadist.
Merry Christmas to you and to those about whom you care. Even him.
elise
Comment by elise — December 25, 2008 @ 9:24 am
I empathize with your frustrations with not being able to run at this time. I have also had to stop temporarily and am just beginning to attempt getting back on track. My body screams out when I push it just a little too far and it forces me to slow down.
I wish you a speedy recovery.
Comment by good girl — January 4, 2009 @ 9:01 am
How, exactly, does one eliminate the self, I ask you?
That’s what I’m always asking myself….how and best to reach that oblivion.
Comment by O — January 8, 2009 @ 10:53 pm