Sub-creation

Have you noticed that so many submissives are the creative type. Whether it be writing, art, fashion, cooking, coffee art – it’s a thing, what ever it might be, so many submissives are creating things. I wonder why that is?

I’m kind of going to break apart the submissive personality here so move on a few paragraphs if that’s been done like a bottom at a dungeon party.

To be submissive is to be really arrogant. How dare we go against society and popular culture and listen to our gut?It’s just rude. Be over scheduled, confused and exhausted like the rest of us. There is no excuse for being smart and together and deciding to defer to another in some or all of our lives. How dare you?

Submissives are annoying. We really are. We know what we want and we know what feels good. We are not wishy-washy. There is no demure princess hiding in here. There is a fully gown mountain lion fighting for what she needs. Submissives are so annoying for knowing that. No wonder the rest of society is baffled by us. We are a contradiction walking around wet and satisfied.

Is that why we are creative? Welcome back if you skipped ahead. Have we acknowledged some chemical need inside our brains and we need to channel that into something that is more than ourselves? Who has met a submissive that hasn’t penned an erotic story? I’m looking around at the lack of hands in the air.

It’s pent up desire bursting from a sticky cum filled center. It’s painting time. That time between knowing this is the answer to my life and finding the dominant that keeps the same time as me. Listening for that tick tick that matches my tick tick needs accompanied by music, words, paint, fabric, coffee.

Going against the grain takes grit and adjectives. The majority of my family, friends associates and space cadets will not live in a D/s or M/s relationship so they won’t know what the hell I’m taking about. If you are like the majority of us, you keep it to yourself, behind your front door and with only the most trusted vanillas. Maybe you have better connections than mine but I haven’t had any success in explaining this thing that we do – that’s another story – but for me, it’s something I keep to myself and my blog. It has to come out somehow. That’s why religions proselytise. The more the merrier, come believe in what I believe in. People love to share and when someone believes in the same way of life as we do, it makes us happy. Our health level goes up, our happiness score rises and we feel fulfilled and verified.

We are not a religion – oh if only we were, imagine the tax implications. How do we proselytise? We create. We splash the paint around to write a message that is uniquely ours.

Mine is writing. What is yours?

The Newness of a Page

Today I got a new journal.  It’s fresh. It has that new journal smell and I lift it to my face and inhale it deeply. It smells of pulp, possibilities and fear.

I put the journal down and look at it suspiciously.  I don’t do journal’s lightly. I fill them to capacity and often beyond. I will paste pages on pages and add pull outs and flaps. They become part of my being on a molecular level.  I feel enormous responsibility for them, and they for me.

This new journal and I aren’t talking yet. That will take time. We need to get to know each other before I can add things that will sink into its skin  and help me understand why I am writing them there. It’s not an easy process.  It’s like tattooing a person. It’s there forever.

I keep all my journals. I have the old ones in a trunk. The first one must have used a multi pack of glue sticks and I am the reason glitter is a protected species. Some of the pages are stiff and hard to turn. Others have stuck together, forming a bond merging into foreverness.  I envy those ones. I don’t disturb them as I turn.

When I read the one I just retired – unable to stick anything else into it, there is no corner to scribble a word in – I read angst and helplessness and pretence. I was writing everything that should have been spoken aloud.  This journal is an emotional wreck.  It’s the emo of the journal collection.  The other journals shy away from it so I put it on its own shelf.  It’s introverted and anti-social and they talk about it in low whispers. It knows they are talking about it.

The new journal looks around and gives me a terrified look. Don’t do that to me. I’m new and fresh and I was bound with hope.  Trees were not massacred so I could end up on the Eeyore shelf.

I can’t guarantee it’s going to be an easy journey for the new journal. It will be hard work.  There will be times that sad emotions seep into its pages. I offer a rare stick of glitter glue as a peace offering but we aren’t there yet and it refuses to open.   There is a plan, I tell the journal and I like plans. I can stick to plans as long as they don’t change and twist and throw me off course.

Here is the deal new journal.  It’s you and me for the next six months.  I’ll be honest but I’ll do better than poor emo journal who is currently lying flat, legs out over the edge of the shelf, exhausted.  I google journal therapy and make an appointment for my journal to speak to an encyclopedia.