Eloquent Deliberate Silence

Let’s put some words down. Any words will do. At least for now.

The gap between my writing has been too long.

I don’t know why exactly.

I come here. I skim. I read. I admire. I wish.

And then I don’t write.

And that is a parallel for life right now.

I am here. I perform. I deliver (mostly). And I don’t care too much.

Work bores me. I know I need to change. And yet, I can’t raise the enthusiasm to actually look for what could be next.

And even if I could, I’m not sure I would know what I really want. That’s the dilemma. To be sure you don’t really want what you have; but not to know what better looks like.

I disappoint myself that this is all I can muster. Some whinny weasley words of first world problems.

But there is an inkling, just as I get to the end of this, that getting these words out in a page unplugs a blockage and creates a little ember of something that maybe I can stoke.

The memory of an ember, something I wrote once with someone long ago where I admired their words and use of ember as a metaphor. I haven’t thought about that for such a long time.

And a memory of words and writing and sharing that I really need to get back to. So maybe I’ll just come here and let the random thoughts flow to the one or two people who may actually get this far.

Or perhaps it’s just me, mumbling to myself into the void.

I’ll perhaps come and mumble again.

Because to put some words down, no matter how rambling, feels good.

Forgive me. I just read all that back. All very woe is me. I honestly just want to create some words.

Still here. Sort of.

Words have been dammed up behind work and life for too long.

Hopefully I can see a little chink of light which might give me some space to fill the gap with words and thoughts rather than deeds and activity.

It's my 15 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

Well that is a scary number.

But full of memories of people met, things learnt, words written (as The Dirty Romantic for a long while), and a whole load of life going alongside it all including challenges and high points.

My main thought here though is how many words have I written here over those years, and what if I had not been a wandering generality but a meaningful specific and had turned that tumble of words into a story or a novella, maybe even enough for a novel.

My eyes close in sympathy with lips that overwhelm the evidence of my desire.

I am nothing but this moment.

Seduced by your succulent warmth, I give myself to you, and you accept it all.

Planted in the high back chair, you sit, held in place. My fist wrapped in your hair keeps your head lifted, eyes on me.

Fingers slick and glistening, moving fast, they force another groan from you.

The wet slap, slap, slap of my palm against your cunt reverberates around the sparse room.

Eyes pleading, looking up at me, wanting, needing. But what exactly?

For me to carry on pounding my fingers into that hungry needy hole, or for me to relent and let you come?

Right now, that doesn’t concern me. All I want is to see the need in you grow with every thrust of my fingers.

Pretty eyes looking up at me show me not the window to your soul, but instead a flaming need to be used, to be taken, to be mine.

My hand moves, you groan, your need grows, there is nothing else that matters in this moment.

No, I think she is hard to get.

This is another one of those posts where I want to get some words out but they are reluctant to appear in any meaningful way.

So instead I’ll just burble away here until I stop, just hoping that the act of putting some words down will unblock something.

But then again perhaps it won’t. Perhaps the burble will just burble along as a meaningless burble.

And so, this evening, all I can muster is this little clump of pointless nothing. I wish it was more.

But not today.