This is me, now, writing how I was early this morning, with memories as fresh as I can make them. I wake up, wrists chained to my collar, in a prayer position. I slept lightly, unusually for me, I kept on waking every few hours, suddenly aware once more of my position. I can feel you asleep beside me, a solid object and I am ephemeral, entirely contingent upon your existence, air or water. So what am I, when you are not awake?
I'm waiting. Whilst you sleep, I wait. Very calm, there is no anxiety in my being, because there is nothing to be anxious about - all choice has been removed and therefore I have nothing that I can act upon, be concerned about. I am asleep, and not asleep, that light phase of being and not-being. I am a hiatus, a fillip. The break in what is, a liminal space inbetween myself as me, and myself as the submissive subject. I cannot be me, because I am wearing your collar, but neither can I entirely be the submissive self that the collar demands because there is nothing for me to submit to. You are not entirely present, and yet you are also here. The blindfold helps: I couldn't see you, even if I wanted to, but I can hear your regular breathing and feel your warmth, not far away but not touching either. The collar is not heavy around my neck, there is no pain. It is the reassuring weight of a safe pair of hands, holding me up, keeping me together in this moment of not-sleeping, lest I fragment into the total nothingness of non-existence. It grounds me. An anchor in the oceans of submission, tying me to this bed, to this reality, to this body which is for your body.
I'm waiting, for you to wake up, to move from these greys of neither here nor there into function, into activity, into being that which gives and also receives. But this state is also pleasing to me, to be held, in suspension. They also serve who only stand and wait.
Abandoned to his fate in inescapable rope
3 months ago