Last week I stayed home a day, sick, and spent most of it in my study.
At one point, there was a strong wind and I looked out my window to see leaves falling steadily for twenty minutes straight.
It looked like it was raining gold.
Now the trees are almost bare, just a few stubborn orange leaves and one tree filled in bright yellow.
Winter is here, and I am not yet ready for it.
This past summer has been filled with some interesting challenges. In moments I have allowed my darker half full reign and then had to deal with the subsequent consequences; it is an axiom that we learn the true value of what we have only when it is at risk. It is an idea better left untested, for the hurt it carries, but in its cost is a fundamental understanding on where one stands.
I understand the closing thought all to well. In considering breaking my rule, and playing with my submissive unitl gratified, I flirted with the idea of flirting with loss. True I would know where I stand but is it worth the risk of loosing Him? No, it is not. Would it be worth the momentary gratification of my submissives service? No, it would not.
Something dies for me every winter. Every single winter.
I wish there was a way for it to be spring already.
Every year I dread winter and am never ready for the cold, wet snow. Another Winter, another year almost over. Life goes on no matter how much we don’t expect it too.
Simply,
Azephyra
i’m utterly captivated by your imagry “raining gold” – I know exactly what that looks like and reading this just made my morning brighter. I love winter – I know odd – but I cannot tolerate heat – it leaves me enervated, cranky, depressed and is poison to my skin so I stay cocooned in a house shuttered against the harsh sunlight. Fall is the best – I feel a new person as September draws to a close and then stunning October and even dark, rainy November gives me a new lease on life … bring on the snow!
The winter of the soul is upon me as well. Which fork to choose in that road, or simply create a new road? Packing away the summer seems like a small death each year. Then again, so can packing away winters’ joys come summer. Surely there will be a few of those as well. I can only hope and beg.
Blessed be.