After a wistful, spontaneously tearful walk home in the snow today, I remembered that this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is Control.
So I have some equally wistful musings on letting it go.
It’s been 9 days since my last release.
The last time it happened, it was on the living room floor in a trusted friend’s cozy home. We’d weighed down our guts and lightened up our skulls with all the arguably necessary comforts and indulgences. Though our environment was controlled, we were anything but. His rapid heart rate and my quiet enjoyment passed the point of ease and created a cloud of frenetic urgency.
Without much warning, the build overtook me; I couldn’t hold it off my longer.
Because I didn’t have to. That night was about pleasure and penance without force.
I burst on the spot.
I lied there on the floor for quite some time after. Purged, awash with glittering lightness. Hours or minutes, I don’t know. We’d been in the process of warping time and space with our love all night, daring ourself to leave reality behind. So it’s impossible to say for sure.
A week passed. I rode the high of that cleansing release from Sunday to Sunday. When the weekend found me again, I chose to rest and digest in a more solitary space.
A controlled environment for one.
When the week was reborn, I found real solace again in my old masks of Discipline and Routine.
I pressed on even hard then before with the diligence of a drill sergeant, climbing word after word, dimming the glare of distraction, curbing indulgent
Perhaps too much so.
This self-domination affords me much. But no time to waver means no room to breathe.
Today took me caught me off guard, but it doesn’t shock me anymore.
I didn’t even realize how much the pressure had built again until I walked outside into the black 5 o’clock shadows of the near winter evening. The sky was trying to bring the first fluffs of snow down for me. Little cotton mosquitoes flitting on the breeze, preparing to fly into my ears, bite at my face from all sides, no doubt.
But I look up at the specks of white manifesting from the infinite blue-black and feel the telltale prickle of need.
I could chalk it up to the stimulus of the uncontrolled, unpredictable environment. Or the excitement of walking along the shadowy fringe between obligations.
But sometimes the urge doesn’t need an explanation.
I slip down the worn alleyway, away from the possibility of curious eyes, crouch into the darkness, and I let go.