And I still write him every week or so.
Wisely, I suppose, he doesn't write back.
I wish he would write back.
I'm trying to truly give up. See how stupidly conflicted I am? I know he can't give me what I want and need. I always knew that, but preferred to believe in the fantasy.
I can't quite let go of the fantasy. It's nearly a year since we last saw each other and I can't quite let go of the fantasy.
Take a look at my profile on this page. Does that sound like it's really over?
I just can not bring myself to change it. Every so often I look at it and then back away from changing. I've gotten as close as thinking I'll change it but will enshrine the original one somewhere on that side of the page. Of course, I haven't managed to act on it.
However, I did manage to remove the philosopher from my FetLife profile. It was hard, but not as bad as here. After all, I went over to FetLife late last summer after he broke up with me "for good." He was never part of my presence there, although he did have a mutating place in my profile. And the big thing about FetLife is that it is where my demon muse found me, devised a plan, set a trap, and caught me within one week.
So I removed the philosopher from my profile there. And now it reads:
That will do for now.
I am a submissive Jewish bisexual feminist baby boomer with pretenses of being a writer. Did I leave anything out? Oh yeah... cats and red hair. That should cover it.
The man I call my demon muse is a brilliant, creative, and inspiring sadist who values me for my words and works hard to keep me disciplined and writing to my full potential. I am moved and grateful beyond description that he has agreed to take me back into his service after a very unfortunate falling out in December. Our resumed relationship is more satisfying than ever. He no longer scares me; instead I live immersed in a transforming state of submission, and give myself willingly to whatever he has in mind.
The sadist tortures my body and nourishes my soul. His ownership honors me and his attentions educate and enrich me. I am chained to him by my devotion, and need nothing more.
Meanwhile, there are still relics of the philosopher in the house, including the underwear he deliberately left on his last visit and the pony tail I lopped off the first time I cut his hair. There is a picture on my bookshelf, though no longer on my desk or by my bed. And worst of all, there is the beautiful close-upthat adorns my computer desktop.
I think about getting rid of it. It feels like an amputation. He has been there for so long... but soon a friend will be upgrading my operating system, and that would seem an appropriate time to replace the philosopher with the cats. I'll have support for it, so maybe it won't be too painful.
We wouldn't have worked out. I know that - although I still can't accept it.
And I miss him.
I thought I was done crying over him.
I wish we could at least try being friends again.
But it's been 5-1/2 weeks and I haven't heard a word.
And I worry about him.
[she shakes her head as if to clear out the cobwebs that are the remnants of what they had. if they did have anything. it doesn't help. healing takes time. she wishes she had someone of her own.]