Simon & Garfunkel
When darkness comes
And pain is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
He said, on reflecting on the events of that weekend, that He felt He could have done more. More to help, more to mitigate the negatives that on occasion flourished.
An undertone of ‘maybe I failed’, which made me sad.
Did I do that? Did my actions facilitate His feeling that He didn’t do as well as He could or should have?
It also made me wonder, in the moments when, lying next to Him, curled, away, my face carrying the rewards of His arousal, how loud did my silence speak, what did it whisper that only He could hear?
Did it tell Him I was busy building, shadow by deceptive shadow, a grudge, to hold Him to ransom with, to use to accentuate my own feelings of dejection, and diminish His?
Did it tell Him in you I no longer trust?
Did it tell Him I think He failed?
I don’t know is the answer to that, but I rather suspect that, even if those truth aren’t wholly definitive in their legitimacy, there are elements, no matter how fragile, which He holds to Him, and uses to dispossess Himself of worth.
That knowledge is suffused with my guilt, and I carry it with me to remind me.
It’s we, not I, always.
The burden of that knowledge served to make me think, to take on board that responsibility is shared, that it’s not just up to Him to do more, whatever that more entails, it’s also my responsibility as a submissive to (her) Sir, to tell Him, to effectively communicate what I need, in the immediate aftermath, when thought occasionally tends to take upon itself a responsibility to taunt.
It also served as a reminder that care isn’t just for me to enjoy as I’m wrapped in His arms, but a need that for Him, I must also fulfill.
To go to Him, to sooth any worries He may have as He does for me, I must give to Him, as He does to me, not simply take as I concentrate on self.
These scenes, with Him, through which I gleefully skip, are my playground of glorious things.
I know what the entrance looks like, I don’t need to consult my carefully crafted map in order to get there, I know what it looks like as we play there, familiarity providing encouragement even if the scenery isn’t always the same.
But sometimes, as the daylight fades and a chill hangs in the air, the exit isn’t always clear, and before me appears a maze of coagulated emotion to negotiate,
leading me down a lonely path,
away from Him,
to a beguiling sanctuary constructed of smoke and mirrors, crouching in the surrounding dusk.
So I ask myself the question, how do I get from here to there, how does one find their way back, so the mind has no time to play it’s deceitful games.
The mind can sometimes falter as it’s subjected to the
brutality of the sadist one moment, and the protector the next.
These are two sides to the same coin,
but maybe the effect of the spin could be lessened by a bridge over which I may crawl,
to find my way back to Him,
to voice my appreciation,
to diminish the effects which allow the negatives to propagate.