Anniversary

Perhaps this is it.

That point when I stay my hand.  When I no longer search for romance amongst the shadows, or seek desire between the written, yearning lines of almost-strangers, or look for submissive hunger upon their public, intimate pages.

When I no longer respond to those who would wish to follow my dark, certain, velvet religion.

That point where my gentle-yet-deternined predatory self curls up into endless sleep.

It has been a year to the day since I opened this fresh notebook.

Before it began I had endured pain, but I was full of hope.  I had suffered sorrow, but my heart held joy, I had lost in love but my soul was open.

I was perhaps a better man than I am now.

Since that bright March morning I have entered into a string of untidy, foolish, honest-yet-doomed distance D/s relationships that started star-bright but lost themselves in a wilderness of stretched geographies, different lives and indifferent moments.

I have despised myself for countless reasons.

I desired and was desired corporeally in a maelstrom of a summer that was luscious and heady with sex, skin on skin, and sad, tender goodbyes. Lovers forever gone.

And now I have been broken all the way down by this endless, grey, miserable, English fucking winter that has turned my soul to bitter ice.

Perhaps this is it.

On this windy, snow-flurried, chilly, wretched anniversary.

It is time to stop.

And begin all over again.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from tyt2000