There are moments when structure doesn’t restrict us at all— it clarifies us.

D/s has taught me that intimacy isn’t born from force or performance, but from the quiet shapes that allow the unedited self to rise without being asked.

Some people think power exchange is a narrowing. To me, it’s the opposite— a doorway back to what was always there, waiting for light.

I know many readers who underline, highlight, or scribble notes in the margins of their books. I admire their courage, their intimacy with the text. But I cannot do it. My books remain untouched, their pages clean and unmarked, as if I were only a guest in their worlds.

For me, part of the magic is in preservation. I want the book to remain whole, to carry its own silence without my interruptions. Instead of underlining, I carry the sentences inside me. I copy them into notebooks, whisper them aloud, let them echo in memory. The book itself stays intact, a sacred object.

Perhaps it’s a kind of reverence, perhaps a fear of breaking something fragile. But I like to think of it as a pact: the book gives me its story, and I give it my quiet respect in return.

I also like to think that when someone else or I venture back into its pages, they will do so as free of expectations and ideas as I did this time and will have their own or new experience.

Even so, I don’t think one way is better than the other. Some readers love their books loudly, with pen and ink and marks of passion. I love mine quietly, by keeping them whole.

In the end, both kinds of love leave the story alive.