sorchawench | Recent Entries

Since I last wrote, I’ve caught myself thinking about the space around you. The world has
a way of leaning in when it senses something tender and private, like it wants to press its
fingerprints all over it. I don’t like that. I like you with room to breathe, with your shoulders
loose, with your attention belonging to you.

You do not have to tell me what it was, or who, or how it showed up. I can read the small
signs in the way your energy changes. The slight tightening behind your eyes. The way
your hand finds the key a little faster, like your body is reaching for something steady
before your mind can form a sentence. That is enough information for me to act with care
instead of curiosity.

Here is what I want you to know, clearly, in writing: privacy with me is not secrecy that
makes you smaller. Privacy is a kind of shelter. It is me stepping in between you and the
crowd without turning it into a scene, without turning you into a story. You keep your
dignity. You keep your choices. You keep your quiet.
I’m a practical man, and when something matters, I build a system around it. Something
simple. Something that works on the worst day, when your brain is tired and words feel
like a task. So I’m giving you a plan you can carry without effort. It has three parts, and
every part belongs to you.

First, a way to create space on your own. When you feel the world getting too close, put
your thumb on the ridged teeth of the key and take one slow breath that fills your ribs.
Not a performance. Just a physical reset. Let the metal chill your skin for a second, then let
your heat change it. That little shift is your reminder that you can change the temperature
of a moment. You can decide what gets to stay near you.

Second, a sentence you can use without explaining anything. Keep it short so it feels like
strength, not a debate: “I need a minute.” That is it. No apology. No extra words to soften it.
The right people will respect it. The wrong ones do not deserve an expanded version.
Third, and this is the part that makes my hands itch to be useful, a discreet signal you can
use to ask for my steadiness. I’m tying it to something ordinary on purpose, because
ordinary objects disappear in plain sight. Inside this letter you’ll find a plain metal washer,
the kind you’d see on any workbench. Dull silver, a little weight to it, nothing pretty about
it until you understand what it means.

I kept it in my palm long enough that it warmed up, then I set it aside like a promise.
When it reaches you, I want you to decide where it lives. On your key ring if you want it
close. In your pocket. In the bottom of your bag. Anywhere you can reach without looking.
The signal is simple: when you need me, you slide that washer onto the key and close your
fist around both for one steady breath.

You do not have to send a message. You do not have to craft a reason. You do not have to
translate what you are feeling into something digestible for other people. You use the
signal, and you let that be enough. It is your way of telling me, wordlessly, that you want
space made. You want the room to exhale. You want my presence in the way you prefer it,
calm and controlled and on your side.

And because I know you, I can already hear the skeptical little sound you make when
something is too tender. You’re going to think, A washer? Really? Darling, I fix things for a
living. The most reliable parts are never glamorous. They hold. They keep things aligned.

They make the whole structure safer. This one is yours.

It also gives me a quiet thrill, if I’m honest. The idea that you’ll reach for something I gave
you, something that has touched my hands, and that you’ll feel your nervous system
recognize it as permission to soften. That kind of intimacy makes me patient. It makes me
careful. It makes me feel protective in the cleanest way.

Soon, when you find yourself in a room that feels a little too loud, I want you to remember
this: you are not required to withstand everything just because you can. You get to choose
what you allow near you. You get to choose who you answer. You get to choose the pace
of every threshold, including the one with your name on it.

And if you ever want to test it with me, you can. Use the washer and the key, take that
breath, and let your body tell you the truth. If your shoulders drop, we’ll call it evidence. If
your pulse steadies, we’ll call it yours.

If you ever need me, you won’t have to explain, Sweetheart. You’ll only have to use the
signal.

Yours,
R

Current Mood: groggy
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

So this weekend, instead of writing my entry, I went camping. It was the time of Samhain and one of the local SCA groups was hosting the event. They always have a bonfire for people to say goodbye to their loved ones, make wishes for the coming year, and release the grief built up over time.

This year one Lady came with a bag, she'd been diagnosed with cancer 2 year prior, and had saved every wristband from every hospital stay, chemo and radiation treatment, and surgery. She announced that as of that weekend, she was cancer free. And she threw those bands into the fire.

I added my log for Kharma, who we lost in May. My therapist, the World's Greatest Headshrinker, tells me that I cling to grief, instead of feeling it and releasing it. And so I fall apart, months after loss, when the grief ball gets too big.

The Priestess who blesses the fire said as she wandered the site, gathering the materials for her head wreath and reading the omens, she saw signs of snakes. An element of change. And butterflies. An element of growth.

And so my log was in remembrance of Kharma, my underbite Princess, my last link to Loki, she was a Bitch.

And to change and grow through grief.

And the fire burned...

A large bonfire in the night

Current Mood: melancholy
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Duncan handed Seamus the bread and a mug of beer. A shilling was handed over between the two men who stood over the body of Duncan's brother, Sean. Seamus held it tight. This was unusual, too much for his normal payment, but this was an extra special ritual today.

Seamus ate the bread and drank silently, then softly, "I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man, that ye walk not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. Amen."

The room responded, "Amen". Seamus then walked around the foot of the bier and out of the house. He had done his job and he was no longer needed or wanted. He limped into the fog and drizzle of the Welsh morning.

The burial rites would be continued by the family, but his job was only as the sin-eater. There specifically to take on Sean's sins, so that he could enter heaven with a clean spirit.

He limped slightly as he trudged through the town. People grew silent as he passed. Mothers pulled skirts around small children so they would not see him. Whispers followed him as he walked through the market stalls.

The entire town knew what Seamus did, even though he was outcast and lived off the charity of the villagers. But today was different, and today everyone knew whose sins he'd taken on.

~*~

Everyone knew that Sean was, if anything, a man with many sins. No one wanted his soul to linger the town. He was a drunk, which, by normal standards was not surprising. But he was a mean drunk. His mood would swirl dark and dangerous when the ale flowed in his veins. He was unable to hold down a job to provide for the family. And drunken fights in the Tavern were not uncommon.

But when he had beaten poor Daffyd near to death, and left him brain addled and toddler-like, the community knew that Sean had demons that chased him.

~*~

The night he died was almost omen like in it's form. A dark moon. The skies hung low and threatened a deluge to come. Thunder rumbled across the mountains and moors. The winds blew through the town, rattling windows and doors and old lady Pritchard swore she heard the cries of the bean-sidhe in the darkness.

Families huddled close to hearth fires and called on the Old Gods to protect them. Sean however was on a tear that night. He'd been working as a stableman for the Laird and had been let go after he'd left the stall door unlatched of the Laird's prize hunter, who had wandered out and ate from the grain bin and foundered.

Sean, unemployed again, and with no prospects was enraged. Grasping a flask in his fist, he wandered the streets and alleys of the village, looking for someone to pick a fight with, someone with whom he might also pick their pockets.

Drunk and bleary eyed, Sean stumbled around the corner of the baker's house and found what he'd been looking for. A victim. For, huddled against the walls, taking in what heat he could from the ovens, was Seamus...the town's outcast. The pathetic rag man that everyone in town supposedly feared. Sean never understood the fear, the rag man was slight, limped, lived off scraps and what he could catch in snares in the nearby woods.

Sean turned to the silent form and pulled his dagger. The deadly blade barely showed in the darkened night. "Hey, rag man!", he bellowed, "Give me your coin, or give me your life!" With that he swung the dagger toward Seamus's huddled form. But Seamus had heard him coming. He had dodged many a kick or a shove from others. With what seemed to be a seamless grace, Seamus ducked Sean's wild swing, and came up with his own dagger. One slice, across his neck, and Sean's massive body collapsed to the ground.

Seamus stood there for a moment, blood dripping from his blade. He looked up, to see if anyone else had witnessed the deadly encounter...but the streets were dark and silent. Seamus had always been a practical, level headed man. He knew he'd face the noose for murder, if he was found, and so, wiping his bloody blade on Sean's back, he turned into the darkness and slipped away. As unseen in the night, as he was during the day.

~*~

The constables closed the case quickly, as no one really was mourning Sean's demise, and the evidence of his killer being severely lacking. The family prepared the body for the funeral, and Duncan himself walked to the small shack on the outskirts of town to ask Seamus to come and perform the old rites.

"I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man, that ye walk not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. Amen."

And so it was done. His shiny shilling tucked close in his pocket, Seamus trudged through the town and out into the moors. Looking around, he noted that he was alone. It was then he stuck his finger down his throat and forced himself to throw up the bread and beer, so recently consumed.

"Rot in Hell, where ya deserve, ya scoundrel Sean! May the Devil be there to welcome ye!"

~*~

A sin-eater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to spiritually take on the sins of a deceased person. The food, generally bread and beer, was believed to absorb the sins of a recently deceased person, thus absolving the soul of the deceased.

People typically hired a Sin Eater in situations where the deceased died unexpectedly. In time, the practice expanded in popularity, so that Sin Eaters also attended to people who had just died of natural causes — because people believed the ritual could help prevent the dead from wandering the countryside after death.

In Meso-American civilisation, Tlazolteotl, the Aztec goddess of vice, purification, steam baths, lust and filth, and a patroness of adulterers (her name literally means 'Sacred Filth'), had a redemptive role in religious practices. At the end of an individual's life, they were allowed to confess misdeeds to this deity, and she would cleanse the soul by "eating its filth".

Cultural anthropologists and folklorists classify sin-eating as a form of ritual. It is most commonly associated with 18th-19th century Scotland, Ireland, Wales, English counties bordering Wales, and Welsh culture. The term "sin-eater" appears to derive from Welsh culture.

This wasn’t an especially well-paid job — the Sin Eater would receive a half-shilling or more, in addition to the scant meal. A half-shilling amounts to no more than a couple of US dollars when inflation is accounted for.

The use of Sin Eaters appears to have ceased in the early 20th Century. Immigrants possibly carried out in the tradition in Appalachian areas of the United States.

My question was, what if the Sin-Eater didn't think the person's sins SHOULD be absolved?

Current Mood: busy
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

DATA: What is death?

PICARD: Oh, is that all? Well, Data, you're asking probably the most difficult of all questions. Some see it as a changing into an indestructible form, forever unchanging. They believe that the purpose of the entire universe is to then maintain that form in an Earth-like garden which will give delight and pleasure through all eternity. On the other hand, there are those who hold to the idea of our blinking into nothingness, with all our experiences, hopes and dreams merely a delusion.

DATA: Which do you believe, sir?

PICARD: Considering the marvellous complexity of our universe, its clockwork perfection, its balances of this against that, matter, energy, gravitation, time, dimension, I believe that our existence must be more than either of these philosophies. That what we are goes beyond Euclidian and other practical measuring systems and that our existence is part of a reality beyond what we understand now as reality.

~*~

Picard: You want to die.

Data: Not exactly, sir. I want to live, however briefly, knowing that my life is finite. Mortality gives meaning to human life, Captain. Peace, love, friendship. These are precious because we know they cannot endure. A butterfly that lives forever is really not a butterfly at all.

Current Mood: sad
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

I shelled out $200 today for one of my dogs, who was refusing to put weight on her left hind foot, to come out of the vet's office with the knowledge that she has a Stage 5 heart murmur, an enlarged heart, and will need to be on heart medication for the rest of her life. And then, when getting heartworm pills, I had to tell them to take Loki and Kharma off my "Owned Dog List" since both of them have passed away.

I now have a very large sad.

A black and tan Chi-weenie dog

Current Mood: sad
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

After the rain, when everything smells clean, you will realize we crossed something you
cannot unfeel.

Since I last wrote, I have been carrying a kind of steady heat under my skin, the sort that
makes a man go quiet because he is busy keeping his control gentle. You gave me
permission to want you with my whole chest and still keep you safe inside it. I have not
taken that lightly for a second. I have been living like my hands have a new job: protecting
the part of you that softens when you are chosen on purpose.

I keep thinking about the way rain changes the world without asking anyone’s approval. It
just arrives and makes everything honest. The air turns sharp. The pavement goes dark
and glossy. Streetlight becomes a gold spill across water. Every sound gets closer, like the
sky pulled the whole city in for privacy. It felt like our kind of weather from the beginning,
the kind that gives permission without pushing.

You already know what happened, because you were there. Still, I want you to have it in
writing, the way we do. I want you to be able to unfold this and feel it again in your body,
warm and certain.

When the rain finally found us, you stepped out the way I asked, for one breath, and I saw
you. You did not look like someone bracing. You looked like someone deciding. That is the
version of you I can never forget, and I never want to.

I came to you with my jacket in my hand, not as a dramatic gesture, as a simple one.
Leather holds heat. It holds scent. It holds the shape of a man’s shoulders and turns it into
shelter. I set it around you like a boundary I was responsible for, and I watched your eyes
as I did it. Your consent sat there, clear as a lit window. Your shoulders eased. Your
breathing widened. That was my yes.

Then we did the thing I have been wanting since the first line I ever wrote you, the thing I
kept making myself wait for because you deserved patience, not hunger.

We danced.

Not in a ballroom, not in front of anyone who could steal it from us. Just you and me and
rain pressing cold kisses to our skin while the air between our bodies stayed warm. My
hand found yours. My other hand settled at your waist like it belonged there because you
allowed it. Water slid down my knuckles, and you laughed under your breath, that small
sound you make when you are trying to pretend you are unshaken.

I can still hear you, just one soft line, nearly lost in the rain: “You’re trouble.” You were right,
Love. I am. I am the kind that shows up steady, the kind that stays.

I did not rush you. I did not turn it into something it wasn’t. I held you close enough to feel
the truth in your pulse, and I kept my mouth near your ear like a promise with manners. If
you had used the stop word, I would have frozen on the spot. You never needed it. Instead,
you leaned in. You chose closer.

Here is what I want you to understand about the strange remembering I have confessed
to you, the part of me that recognizes you beyond logic. It has never been a chain. It has
always been a vow looking for a life sturdy enough to keep it.

Whatever I knew of you before, whatever my mind insists it has seen, it only matters
because it taught me the shape of you: the real you. The brave, observant, soft-edged
woman who wants intensity with safety built into it. The one who needs to be wanted
without being handled like an object. The one who needs devotion that does not flinch. I
see the real you. I’m saying it again because it stays true in every kind of weather.

So here is my point of no return, written plain.

I am choosing you in the ways that matter privately. In how I speak about you. In where I
place my attention. In the patience I practice. In the restraint I keep sharp, because it
protects what we are building. In the way I will always make room for your no, and still
look at you like you are everything I wanted.

I want your choice back, equally intentional. Not a grand announcement. Just a simple
decision that lives in your bones. If you can give me one honest line, the way we do, I will
take it like a vow.

“Say it again. Just for me.” Write what you want. Write what you’re ready for. Write what
you are calling this. I will respect every word.

There is one more thing, and this is me putting weight in your palm and trusting you with
it.

You will find a key with this letter. Hold it for a second before you decide what it means.
Feel the cold bite of metal warming to you. Feel how real it is, how undeniable. I like giving
you something your fingers can argue with. I like leaving you with proof.

Keep it. Keep it the way you kept my jacket around your shoulders in the rain, like a shelter
you chose.

Keep the key, Sweetheart. The door it fits has your name on it, and I have not told you
what is waiting inside.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: awake
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: Grey's Anatomy

We had a day and a half of rain here. Almost 5 inches in 48 hours, and went from the 90*'s to a high of 39* like it saw a State Trooper on the side of the road. It's cold this morning. So the furnace is on, cause our house gets COOOOOOOLLLLLLD. Even though next week it's going to be in the 80's again.

Magpie and Honey are laying in the dog bed in front of the furnace, enjoying a bake.

2 dogs laying in a bed in front of the furnace

2 dogs laying in a bed in front of the furnace

Current Mood: peaceful
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: 48 Hours Mystery in the background

Later, when you hear your own name, you will realize you like how it sounds in my careful
hands.

Since I last wrote, I have caught myself doing something ridiculous for a man my age: I
have been testing words in my mouth like I am trying on rings I do not deserve yet. I say
them quietly, under my breath, while I’m working, while my hands are busy and my mind
has too much room to circle you. Some words feel easy. Some feel like a promise you only
make when you plan to keep it with your whole body.

You have already taught me that intensity is only worth anything when it stays safe. You
get to feel wanted without being cornered. You get to be chosen without being chased.
So I’m not going to take a single inch of language you have not handed me.
Here is what I want, and here is how I am asking.

I want permission to call you Love in a deeper way than a passing tease. Not as a habit.
Not as a line. As a private name that means: I am paying attention, I am here, I am steady,
and you do not have to brace around me. If you read that and your shoulders drop, that is
a yes I can feel even through paper. If you read it and something in you goes still, you can
say no, or you can ask me to choose another word, and nothing will sour between us. Your
control stays intact. The stop word stays sacred. My pride can handle a boundary,
sweetheart. My devotion is built for it.

The reason I am asking so carefully is simple. A name changes the air. It turns a glance
into a claim, and I have earned enough of you to want that, while still respecting the part
of you that needs everything to be clean and chosen.

I keep thinking about your wrist, the small place where truth gives itself away. I keep
thinking about how you can pretend you’re calm until someone touches you there and
your pulse tells on you. That is the kind of honesty I like. Quiet. Undeniable. Yours. When I
imagine saying your name, I imagine doing it the same way I would touch you there: with
intention, with gentleness, and with the full awareness that you could pull back. You
would not have to explain. I would simply stop.

I have a confession tucked into this, too, because I promised you clarity. The “another life”
feeling in me has sharpened lately, like a blade being honed. Not in a tragic way, and not
in a way that asks you to carry anything heavy. It is more like recognition getting braver.
Like my memory is done whispering and wants to speak in a normal voice. When I think
of you, I get that old, steady certainty again, the one that has no logic and still feels
honest: I see the real you. I always have, in whatever strange way my life has known how.

You’re going to make a face at that, I can feel it. That skeptical little lift, like you’re deciding
whether to let me get away with being poetic. Fair. Keep me honest. It’s one of the
reasons I like you so much.

So I’ll earn my poetry with proof. Here is your two-line poem, and I am keeping it plain on
purpose:
Your name in my mouth is a vow I can keep.
Your safety in my hands is the only rule I won’t bend.

Do you hear the difference? This is where I let myself sound a little more possessive, and
you get to decide if it lands the way I intend. When I say I want you, I mean I want you
protected from anything that makes you feel small. I mean I want your softness kept
intact. I mean I want to be the man you can lean into without wondering what it will cost
you.

There is a kind of claiming that feels like control, and there is a kind that feels like shelter. I
am offering you shelter, with the door open and the light on, and your hand on the lock
the entire time.

If you want to test it, give me one line back, the way we do. Tell me whether I have
permission. You can write it sharp, you can write it sweet, you can write it like you are
trying to pretend you do not care. I’ll hear you anyway. If it helps, borrow my favorite little
request, the one that makes honesty feel like a dare and a kiss at the same time: “Say it
again. Just for me.”

And if your answer is yes, then I will do what I have been circling for too long. There is a
word I have avoided because once it exists between us, it becomes real in a way I cannot
take back. I want it real. I want it spoken with your eyes on mine, close enough to see the
tiny changes in your breathing, close enough to stop the second you ask, close enough
that you feel chosen in your bones.

If you let me name what we are, I will tell you the word I have been avoiding, and where I
want to say it to your face.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: awake
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Did you know we have museums for coprolite?!?!?!

It's true!

We call them Congress and the Senate.

We store people older than shit there, to make our laws.

Crazy, right?

::insert Darth Vader's theme music here:: The midterm elections are coming up.

We're going to vote on the least shitty candidate, hoping and praying that the promises they've made aren't going to get us into deeper shit than we're already in. And ya gotta admit, it's pretty deep.

Most of the people there have no idea of the shit we're dealing with on a daily basis, because they get paid wild shit-tons of money to tell us that they're in touch with the pulse of the country.

And, there comes a time in everyone's life when you sit back and acknowledge the fact that for all our fancy educations, training, and years of experience as a citizen...

It means exactly, shit.

These shit talking politicians will win and do exactly what they want for as long as they can keep shit together enough not to piss us off by the next election.

See, some of them have been there a loooooooong time.

I'm a fan of Term Limits. Retirement to Happy Acres Senior Living Center for Politicians. Cause some of these politicians and I share jack shit in common.

Take Texas.

No, really....take it, please.

Ken Paxton, Attorney General, made a sweetheart deal for a child molester who just happened to throw a shit talking lawyer, who works for one of his biggest campaign donors into the case.

He's made deals with data centers, reducing taxes for them, in exchange for ANOTHER shitload of money for his campaign.

He was IMPEACHED by his own party for some 20 charges, until his shithead wife recused herself from testifying.

And now he's running for the Senate. You think I'm voting for THIS piece of shit?!?!?!?!?!?

That's the shitty thing about politicians.

If they are going to do it, nothing you say will change a damn thing. And the shit rolls on...

Don't even get me started on Mitch McConnell...

~*~

So, what do you do? Give up? Throw in the towel and turn in your Human race membership card? Sometimes that sounds like the shit.

But nope. We plug away, talk, offer shoulders, be supportive, give advice, lend an ear, speak from the heart.

And pray. Pray that we voted for the right shittalker.

When do you know if you made a difference? Shit, I don't know...when life gets less scary?

What will the dawn's early light bring?

Hopefully, a change in the way shit's been done.

Current Mood: crappy
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

I have been carrying a promise in my pocket since I last wrote, turning it over like a coin I
keep checking is still there. Some promises are meant for grand gestures. This one is
meant for the quieter moments, the ones where you are alone with your own thoughts
and you wonder if what we are building can stay steady when nobody is watching.
It can. It will.

I am not offering you fireworks. I am offering you a man who shows up the same way
every time. A man whose hands do what his mouth claims. A man who keeps his temper
inside his ribs, keeps his attention on you, keeps his choices clean. Consistency is a kind of
romance people forget to ask for, until they have it. I want you to have it.

Since you have already seen me repair what I handled wrong, I am going to make this part
simple. Here is what you can count on with me: discretion that protects your peace,
warmth that does not demand anything from you, and patience that does not turn into
distance. If you want closeness, I will come closer with permission. If you want space, I will
give it without turning it into punishment. Your control remains real. The stop word
remains sacred. My loyalty remains boring in the best way, meaning it does not wander or
entertain itself with games.

You once made me laugh with that look you give, the one that says you can smell
exaggeration from across a room. Fine. I will be precise, because you like precision almost
as much as you like being teased.

I promise I will never rush your body or your heart. I promise I will ask, then wait, and I will
make waiting feel wanted instead of withheld. I promise that when I touch you, even in
the smallest ways I am allowed, it will be the kind of touch that settles you. A palm at your
back, a knuckle brushing your wrist, the quiet pressure that says, I’m here, you’re safe, you
don’t have to brace.

That brings me to your wrist.

I want you to do something for me the next time you catch yourself reaching for comfort
without thinking. Touch the inside of your wrist with two fingers, right where your pulse
insists on being honest. Feel it. It is steady because you are steady. Remember my
promise sitting right there with your heartbeat: I will not hurry you. I will not take what
you have not given. I will not confuse hunger with entitlement.

I can almost hear you exhale, and I can almost hear the next thing you would say if I were
close enough to earn it. You do not have to be brave all at once with me. Small is good.
Small is real.

So this is where I ask you for one small want, out loud.

One. Not an essay. Not a careful paragraph you revise until it sounds calm. A single want
you can claim without apologizing for it. It can be as simple as where you like a hand to
rest, what kind of words make you feel most chosen, what you want me to remember
when the world gets loud. Say it to the room if you have to. Whisper it into the sleeve of
my jacket if that is the easiest place to be honest. Then, if you feel like letting me have it
too, write it to me in one line.

And when you do, I want you to use our little call-and-response the way it was always
meant to be used. Say it again. Just for me.

I know what you are thinking, because you are sharp. You are going to ask what I am
giving in return for that honesty.

Everything that matters.

Here is my two-line poem for you, spare on purpose, because I am trying to be the kind of
man you can trust even when I am being romantic:

I will choose you in the quiet, where truth survives.
I will make my wanting feel like shelter.

Shelter. That word keeps circling back, does it not? Leather warmed by your hands. A
low-lit corner where the rest of the world cannot crowd you. A presence at your shoulder
that changes your breathing. That is the sort of promise I can keep without making
speeches.

Now, the last thing. The signal.

We have danced around the weather in these pages like it is a secret language, and
maybe it is. Rain is honest. It makes everyone look a little undone, and it gives permission
to step out of whatever role you were playing. I want to borrow that permission with you,
in the smallest, safest way. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that demands a scene.

A meeting of eyes. A shared breath. A moment that belongs to us because we decided it
does.

If you feel the air shift and you hear that first soft insistence against glass or pavement,
remember what I am telling you here, Muse. You are not guessing with me. You are
chosen on purpose, and I am steady on purpose.

When the rain finally finds you, step outside for one breath, and look for the place I told
you to meet my eyes.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: awake
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: Morning News in the background

I broke a tooth this weekend, and I'm probably going to get it pulled. Any little bit helps, and I hate to ask....but, well shit.

Dental work needed!!!!

Current Mood: depressed
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Fight, flight, or freeze?

Fight, flight or freeze!

I can feel the hum running through my veins constantly. It's 6:45AM...the sun not up yet. My bills are paid, I'm healthy-ish, I have a good job, I have friends, lovers, family. I'm going to catch a shower soon, get dressed for work, and spend the day busy. My life is not bad.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

I feel it most in my chest. Is that my heart that aches with the constant draw of energy? My lungs which expand with each breath. Is that where it hurts?

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Where is the plug located? If I knew, I'd unplug it. The slight, constant hum of energy being drawn. It's a low thrum, barely noticeable to myself but it's driving me slowly insane with anxiety. Like standing in the Cowboy's AT&T stadium, 80,000 TO 100,000 people, with everyone whispering something different at the same time, and you can't pick out anything specific.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Can you hear it? Do you hear them? The whispers? No, it's completely unnoticeable to anyone outside of me.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

~*~

It's 1:45PM and I'm meeting with my new psychiatrist for our 2nd visit. I'm telling him about LJ Idol, Vampire Load, and what I've written. I told him, I have a constant flow of energy, the constant level of anxiety and a weird impending sense of doom.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

He asked me if I knew the basic definition of an Obsession.

I said it's a thought that there's something that you fixate on, that you think you need, that you MUST have to survive.

He said I had a basic idea, but that I've attached it to a feeling...my anxiety. It's not that I NEED it to survive, but I've become obsessed with the slow charge of energy, the voices (which he does not relate to schizo-affective hallucinations, but my own thoughts, playing on loop in the background of the anxiety).

And I told him I had a headache. A constant, low grade headache, caused by the trickle of energy, so tiny, but SO LOUD.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

So we're trying a new med. Propranolol. 10-20mgs...if I don't notice a change with 10, I can take 20. It's actually a blood pressure med, but apparently can be used for physical effects of anxiety.

~*~

Day 1. I took my morning ADHD med and 10mgs of the new med. I'm sitting here, feeling around in my brain, my body, mental fingers poking the previous sore spots. And right now, I think I'm ok.

I can live with ok. We shall see...

Current Mood: okay
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Since I last put ink to paper, something small turned sharp at the edges. The kind of
misunderstanding that happens when two people are trying to keep something private
and end up sounding careful instead of clear. I felt it the moment it happened, like grit
between my teeth. You do not deserve grit from me.

So I am going to do this the way I should have from the start. I am going to listen first,
then speak plainly.

What I heard beneath your words was a question you did not even ask outright: Are you
safe with me, or are you going to have to keep guessing where you stand?

You should never have to guess with me.

I can handle your suspicion. I can handle your fire. I can handle you pulling back to check
the ground. I have lived long enough to know that trust does not respond to force. It
responds to consistency. It responds to a man saying, calmly, I understand what you
meant, and I am here anyway.

So here is my precise apology. I was too indirect. I wrapped my meaning in discretion and
called it protection, and it landed like distance. That is on me. Privacy is a tool I use to keep
your peace, and I used it clumsily. If I made you feel shut out, I am sorry. I am not
interested in building a door between us and calling it romance.

You have a right to ask for clarity. You have a right to want warmth without decoding me.

And, Love, you have it.

My loyalty is simple. It does not wander. It does not play games. It does not test you. When
I choose, I choose with my whole chest. You have been treated like something to be
handled carefully, because you are, and because I intend to be the kind of man whose
care feels steady instead of complicated.

I can already hear you in my head, that little exhale you do when you catch me being too
intense. Fine. I will soften it with a truth and a little humor, the way I should. I am a
blue-collar man with a leather jacket and an inconvenient talent for feeling things deeply.
That is the whole scandal. If you were hoping for a more glamorous problem, you are out
of luck.

There is something else I owe you. A confession about this very letter.
I did write you a first version. It came out hard. Protective in the wrong direction. The kind
of message a man writes when his pride is bruised and he mistakes that bruise for
principle. I read it once and heard how it would land on you. I pictured your eyes
narrowing, your shoulders tightening, that competent composure snapping into place like
armor. I refuse to be the reason you need armor.

So I took that page outside, folded it in half, and watched the flame take it. Paper curls fast
when it is wrong. The smoke smelled bitter for a moment, then clean. My hands did not
shake. The decision was easy. You are more important than my ego.
Here is what I want to repair, specifically. I want you to feel, in your body, that I am near in
the way you asked for. Steady. Warm. Present.

I want you to remember that you have a stop word with me, and that it is real. One word
and I ease back, no sulking, no punishment, no coldness to make you regret using it.
Control stays in your hands. Always.

And I want you to tell me what you need so I can meet you there without guessing. Do
you want more explanation when I go quiet? Do you want fewer half-statements and
more plain sentences? Do you want me to make a rule for myself, the way we do, and
write it down so you can hold me to it?

I’m offering this as a gesture you can feel. If you still have my jacket near you, put your
hand inside the cuff for a second and let the leather warm under your palm. Picture my
thumb pressing there, a simple grounding touch, and hear me saying one clean line: You
are safe with me.

Our little ritual still matters to me, even on a week like this. So here are your two lines,
honest and unshowy:

I will not let silence do my damage.
I will speak, and I will stay gentle.

After you read this, give me one line back. One sentence, no performance. Tell me what
you need from me to feel settled again. Tell me what makes your chest loosen. Tell me
where I stepped wrong, and what would make it right. I can take it. I would rather have
your truth than your politeness.

I wrote a harsher version of this letter first. I burned it, and I kept the one that chooses you.
Yours,
R.

Current Mood: creative
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: Morning News in the background

While taking care of some business the other morning, I noticed a pea sized lump in ma bewb tissue.

Don't recall there being one there before, so I insisted on poking it and moving it around until the tiddies started complaining about the rough treatment.

Now, before ya'll start squawking about getting a tiddie squishing appointment, it's already in the works. It's about time for my annual anyway, they're just adding a sonogram and diagnostic mammo to my right breast.

I have very heavy, dense, fibrous breast tissue, thanks Mom, for that genetic gift.

This is not my first lump, weird patch, or WTF is THAT moment. And my family doesn't have a history of breast cancer, so I'm not terribly worried at this point.

But in a second breath I think...what if? This time...

Folks, these things would be gone so fast if I did pop + for the C word. I'm not even kidding. While I shared the lump finding on FB, I took the road of education and told everyone they needed to be massaging their tiddies all the time.

Not just the annual smash, but at least a monthly massage, just to check em out.

And who doesn't love getting home from work, shedding the bra, and giving yourself a nice massage. Or letting your partner do it.

But as much as I enjoy encouraging people to feel themselves up, I can't help but feel like I'm sitting here, waiting for an appointment, between a benign fibrous tissue and a very hard place to be.

And it's kinda scary.

Current Mood: distressed
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Since I last wrote, I have caught myself reaching for restraint the way some men reach for
a weapon. Habit. Discipline. The kind that keeps the room quiet and safe when the air
between two people starts to spark. I like the spark with you. I like it enough that I handle
it carefully.

You gave me your attention, and I have treated it like something breakable in the best
way. Like a glass warmed by your hands, meant to be held, never gripped.
So here is the part I have been circling with my pen, the part that would be easier to keep
in the shadows. I am done making you guess at the shape of my mystery. I owe you clarity,
Muse, delivered without drama and without weight you did not ask to carry.
When I said I recognize you, I meant it with a specificity that still knocks the breath out of
me if I let it. It is not a vague feeling. It is not a pretty story I tell myself when the world
gets dull. It is a memory with texture.

I remember your hands.

Not the general idea of them. Your hands exactly. The way your fingers curl when you are
focused, the small pause before you decide to touch something that matters. In that other
lifetime, you stood close while I was fixing a stubborn hinge, my knuckles scraped and my
patience thinner than I wanted it to be. You reached in anyway, calm as sunrise, and you
wrapped a strip of cloth around my hand like you had done it before. You did not fuss. You
did not make a performance of kindness. You simply looked at me as if you had already
decided I was worth the care.

I can still feel the pressure of that cloth and the warmth of you near my wrist. Clean,
steady, sure. The way it settled something in me that had been restless for years.
That is the truth. That is the kind of truth that can sound like madness when it is said too
loudly, so I am saying it to you softly. I am placing it in your palms with the same respect
you once gave mine.

I am not asking you to believe it on command. I am not asking you to solve it for me. I am
not asking you to build your life around it. I am telling you because you deserve to know
why my attention has felt so deliberate, why I look at you like I have been waiting without
even knowing what I was waiting for.

And because I refuse to make this heavy.

I am still the man in the leather jacket with hands that know how to fix what squeaks and
sticks. I am still the man who can tease you into a smile and then go quiet, watching,
because I like the way you think. I am still the man who asks before he gets closer, who
listens before he reaches, who cares about your comfort as much as he cares about his
own want.

That part stays simple: you are safe with me. You are wanted with a steadiness that does
not spike and vanish. You are chosen in a way that does not demand you prove anything.
I can almost hear you reading that last line with that little tilt of your head, deciding
whether I’m earnest or dangerous. I’m both, in the only way that matters here. Dangerous
to my own restraint. Earnest about your peace.

I told you we have a ritual, and I intend to keep it. Here are my two lines for you, spare and
honest:

I knew your touch before I knew your name.

I still ask for it like it’s the first time.

If that makes your pulse jump, good. Let it jump. If it makes you wary, I respect that too. I
will not crowd you with the idea of fate until it feels like a warm coat and not a chain.
I have my jacket beside me as I write, the leather creaking when I shift my elbow. It smells
faintly of soap and the outside air, the kind of scent that clings to a man who works with
his hands and still remembers to be gentle. I ran my thumb along the cuff and thought
about the way it sat on your shoulders before. Shelter, offered. Never forced.

Here is what I want from you, and it is simple enough to fit into one sentence.

Tell me what you want after you read this. Not what you think you should want. Not what
sounds brave on paper. What you actually want.

If you want distance, I will give you clean space and keep my steadiness exactly where it
belongs. If you want closeness, you will have it in the way that suits you: patient,
controlled, and entirely yours to stop at any point. Either answer keeps you respected.

There’s a phrase I have been holding back because it feels like a vow when it leaves my
mouth, and I do not waste vows. It is this: I see the real you. I see the part you protect. I see
the part you hide when you’re being competent and fine and untouchable.

After you read this, put your hand over your own wrist for a moment. Feel your pulse. Then
write one honest line back, Sweetheart, and choose your direction.

If you want me to stop, I will. If you want me closer, you will have to tell me in your own
words.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: calm
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: 48 Hours Mystery in the background

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

~*~

So, one of the things I didn't mention in my Introduction is that I am a DRGL (Distinctive Religious Group Leader) for the Pagan community on Sheppard Air Force Base, in Texas.

I am not a Chaplain, as far as the Military is concerned, but for the Pagan men and women who serve, I stand as their teacher, their Priestess, their go-between with our Chaplain point of contact, who currently happens to be a Reformed Protestant.

I've been doing it for 10 years now. And in those 10 years we've fought for recognition, respect, and the same rights as the other religions. We're sponsored by Circle Sanctuary, and the High Priestess, Selena Fox...who fought for the right for fallen Pagan military to have a Pentacle, Mjolnir, or Arwen on their headstones.

We finally won that recognition, although as of 2022, there is no provision for official recognition of Wiccan or Pagan chaplains.

But, our Military Members could get Pagan, Wiccan, Asatru on their dog tags, as of 2007. And we were given access to worship space that didn't involve small dusty rooms filled with storage. We have a lending library, we have supplies, we have a dedicated worship circle under a tree, with meditation benches at the Cardinal Elements.

~*~

And then Pete Hegseth came along. The Director of War.

And under his order, the Department of Defense, for the first time in almost 10 years, has dramatically reduced its number of recognized religious faiths and belief systems by approximately 180. The reforms mark the first time the list has been officially revised since a memo was issued March 27, 2017, decreasing the total number of faiths from 211 to its new number of 31.

He added that members will not be limited to the list of “religious affiliation codes” when selecting information for their dog tags. The revised list, according to documents obtained by Military.com, includes Agnostics, Buddhists, Hindus, Islam (Muslims), Judaism, Sikh, and a wide range of Christian-based groups like Baptists, Catholics, Lutherans and Methodists.

Here is the full list:

Agnostic (AN)
Baha'i faith (BH)
Buddhism (BU)
Christian - Assemblies of God (AG)
Christian - Baptist (BA)
Christian - Brethren (BR)
Christian - Catholic (CA)
Christian - Church of Christ (CC)
Christian - Church of God (CG)
Christian - Church of the Nazarene (CN)
Christian - Episcopal/Anglican (EA)
Christian - Evangelical (EV)
Christian - Jehovah's Witnesses (JW)
Christian - Lutheran (LU)
Christian - Methodist (ME)
Christian - Non Denominational (ND)
Christian - Orthodox (OX)
Christian - Other (CO)
Christian - Pentecostal (PE)
Christian - Presbyterian (PR)
Christian - Quaker (QU)
Christian - Reformed (RE)
Christian - Scientist (SC)
Christian - Seventh Day Adventist (SA)
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (CJ)
Hindu (HI)
Islam (Muslim) (IS)
Judaism (Jewish) (JU)
No Religion (NR)
Other Religions (OR)
Sikh (SI)

Guess where we Pagans fall?

Other Religions.

Military members are still allowed to have Wiccan, Pagan, Asatru, and other Pagan religions put on their dog tags, but they have taken a lot of the powers of the Chaplain's Office out of the Chaplaincy, and put it into the hands of Commanders. For instance, one big change is that Beard Waivers for Asatru worshippers now have to be approved through Command staff, and not the Chaplains.

This restructuring of faith codes, which help identify service members as well as the military in planning for appropriated religious coverage to include them, has now excluded minority faith/worldview groups including Atheists, Asatru, Deists, Druids, Eckankar, Heathens, Humanists, Magick, New Age churches, Pagan, Rosicrucianism, Shaman, Spiritualists, Troth, Unitarian Universalists and various Wiccans.

A significant step backwards.

~*~

Every Sunday at 2, I faithfully go to our building, unlock the doors, and welcome the Pagan Airmen who find us. We will be celebrating Mabon on the 20th, in our dedicated Circle, outside under the tree. And we will continue to provide religious support to those who come to us.

This new DOD list is a middle finger to the United States Constitution’s separation of church and state.

Reducing the number of religious faiths from hundreds down to 31 is another absolute, clear, filthy and disgusting, unconstitutional, immoral and unethical attempt to force only the approved solution, getting closer and closer to Christian nationalism.

I would compare the new list to the faiths and beliefs identified by the Department of Veterans Affairs, which recognizes more than 220 belief systems and has more than 80 emblems for headstones.

So, if you're dead, you'll get your emblem. But if you're alive, you can't even get it on your dog tags unless you qualify for one of these specialized faith traditions that in the eyes of Hegseth and other Christian nationalists are worthy of recognition after years of all of the others being there. I know for a fact (confirmed with my Chaplain) that Wiccans and Asatru are safe. But the rest of the Pagan umbrella...not so much.

These men and women swear an oath to uphold the U.S. Constitution. The First Amendment is the free exercise of religion for everybody.

That oath has never been rescinded, which makes the new list an excuse for the failure to provide the free exercise of religion for all people.

That's a tragedy and travesty, absolutely. As far as I'm concerned, that's a violation of the United States Constitution.

Current Mood: angry
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Your last page is still with me, even when it isn’t in my hands. It sits in the back of my
mind the way a song does when it has teeth, the kind you keep humming without
meaning to. I caught myself doing it while my hands were busy, knuckles nicked, palms
smelling faintly of metal and soap. Useful, ordinary details. Then you show up in them
anyway, like you’ve always belonged in the middle of my day.

I asked your permission, and I meant the asking. I also meant the waiting. Waiting is not
weakness for me. It’s discipline. It’s me choosing to keep you comfortable, to keep you
sure of where you stand with me. Chosen, steady, held in a way that never turns sudden.

So I’m going to tempt you carefully.

There’s a kind of luxury that doesn’t come in boxes or price tags. It comes in atmosphere.
In attention. In a room that feels like it was built to soften your shoulders the second you
step into it. Low light that doesn’t interrogate you. A chair that welcomes you like it knows
the shape of your back. Something warm in a glass. Something slow in the air. The quiet
pleasure of being looked at by someone who is not in a hurry.
I want to give you that, and I want it to feel earned, not dropped in your lap like a
performance.

I keep thinking about you across a dim room, the way you’d tilt your head when you’re
deciding whether you’re about to be amused or dangerous. I know which one I’d prefer. I
know which one I’d bring out with a single sentence, then let the silence do the rest.
Restraint is its own kind of pressure, and you and I have been building it with frightening
skill.

Here’s the part where I make it a ritual instead of a chase.

One honest line from you, and I’ll return two lines of my own. Clean. Unedited. The kind of
truth you can fold small and keep. It doesn’t have to be a confession that leaves you
exposed to the world. It’s just a sentence that belongs to me, because you chose to give it.
Your line can answer one question, and you can pick which question you want to touch.
What do you crave more, when things start to get intense: my voice, my hands, or my
steadiness?

Or this one, if you want to make me work for it.

Where do you want me, when you feel watched by the world: at your back, at your side, or
in front of you?

I can handle whatever you write. I will not punish you for honesty. I will not make you
regret letting the truth out of your mouth. That’s not a promise I make lightly.
I’m going to give you a little tease in return, because you deserve to smile in the middle of
all this heat.

I can be very well-behaved when I need to be. You already know that. What you might not
know is how much I enjoy being tested by you, specifically. It does something to me, the
way you hold your ground without raising your voice. It makes me want to lean in close
enough to catch your breath and still wait for your yes.

I’ve got my jacket near me as I write, leather carrying that clean, worn-in scent. The sleeve
creaks when I shift it, like it has an opinion about where I should be. I ran my thumb along
the seam earlier, absentminded, then realized I was picturing it on you again. Heavy
warmth at your shoulders. My kind of shelter, offered with an open hand.

If you’re wondering what this “private luxury moment” actually looks like, it looks like
choice. It looks like you walking in with your chin up, knowing you can leave whenever you
want, knowing you won’t need to. It looks like me already there, eyes on you, calm enough
to make the whole room feel like it’s under control. It looks like a small corner of the world
that becomes ours for an hour, because we decided it does.

And because I promised you poetry that doesn’t pretend, here are two lines to start the
ritual, a down payment on my intentions:

Your yes is the only key I ever reach for.

Your peace is the first thing I protect.

If you want this, you’ll feel it when you read that. A pull, low in your ribs. A little reckless.
Still safe. That’s the sweet spot, and I can keep you there without letting it tip into
anything that costs you.

All I need is consent, in your own words, and one honest line that tells me where you want
the edge of the night to land.

Say the word, Muse, and I will trade you the address for one honest line from you.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: awake
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Since I last wrote, I’ve caught myself checking the edges of a room the way I do when I’m
about to lift something heavy. It’s an old habit. Eyes first, then hands, then the quiet
decision of where I’m going to stand so the weight stays controlled. You have started to
feel like that to me, and I mean it with respect. Something precious. Something I handle
with care.

I meant what I said about that narrow place that swallows sound. I also meant what I
didn’t say. The part I held back was never about trying to keep you guessing for sport. It
was about choosing the kind of privacy that protects, the kind that doesn’t turn your life
into a story other people get to touch.

So here’s the confession I owe you.

I have reasons to keep what’s happening between us private. Real ones. The kind that live
in the practical world, where loose talk turns into questions, and questions turn into
attention, and attention sticks to you like smoke. You deserve clean air. You deserve to
move through your days without anyone feeling entitled to your softness.
You are safe with me, and I don’t say that lightly. I’m careful with what I build, and I’m
even more careful with who I invite into it.

There’s a morally grey edge to me, Sweetheart. It shows up in how I solve problems. I can
be decisive. I can be quiet about it. I can make things happen without asking permission
from the world at large. That part of me has gotten me through a lot of hard corners, and
it is also the part I keep on a short leash around you, because you deserve my restraint as
much as you deserve my intensity.

If I’m asking you for anything, it’s this: let our privacy be intentional. Let it be loyalty in
practice. Not secrecy as shame. I won’t let you carry the weight of my choices. I’ll carry
them. You get to keep your peace.

And now I’m going to say something that has been sitting under my tongue for days,
making me half dangerous and fully awake.

I want you.

I want you in the slow way, the kind that starts before my hands ever reach for anything. I
want you in the way my focus narrows when I picture your mouth forming a truth you’ve
been holding back. I want you in the way my jacket would look on you, that clean leather
scent warming as it takes on your skin, the hem heavy against your thighs when you turn.
I want you in the way you would look at me once you realize you don’t have to brace for
impact with me, because I’m not here to knock you over. I’m here to hold you steady while
you decide how close you want me.

You’ve already been given control. You’ve got your stop word. You’ve got our little rule, one
unedited sentence, clean and honest. I remember it all. I remember the way you read
carefully, like you’re tasting each line for intent.

So I’m going to do this the right way.

May I keep writing to you like this?

Not just notes that hover near the surface, polite and careful. I mean like this, with the
truth showing. With the heat left warm in the palm instead of hidden in the pocket. With
devotion that doesn’t perform, it simply stands there and waits for you to decide what you
want.

If your answer is yes, I will keep the pace slow enough to feel safe, and steady enough to
feel inevitable. If your answer is no, I will respect it cleanly. No punishment. No sulking. No
pressure dressed up as poetry. You will still have my protection at the edges where you
asked for it, and you will still have your peace.

I can still hear you teasing me from the last time my tone got firm. “You always this
bossy?” I smiled at that, because you saw it clearly. I can sound like a command even
when I’m offering a choice. It’s something I’m working on, and you bring out the part of
me that actually wants to be corrected gently.

A small detail, because I know you like proof that I’m real and paying attention: there’s a
faint smear of ink on the side of my index finger as I write this. I tried to rub it off, and it
only softened at the edges, stubborn as I am. The paper smells like dust and clean cotton.
The room is quiet enough that I can hear my own breath, which is rare for me lately.
And because I promised you steadiness, here are your two lines, the kind you can fold and
keep close:

I will ask before I reach, every time, every way.

I will wait where you can see me, and still mean it.

Give me one sentence back, when you’re ready. Tell me what kind of intimacy feels safest
to you. Words, touch, silence, a look held a second longer than usual. Tell me what you
want more of from me, and what you want less of, and trust that I won’t bruise your
honesty.

I’m going to stop here, because the next part is the part that changes the air between us,
and I won’t push it through a door you didn’t open.

There is one sentence I have never let myself write to you, and my hand is shaking as I
start it.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: content
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Since I last wrote, I’ve been paying attention to the way a room changes when you step
into it. It’s subtle. A shift in air pressure. A soft tightening in my focus. The world gets a
little louder around the edges, and you get very quiet in the center of my mind.
I said I would describe a place you never showed me. I’m going to keep my promise
without turning it into a performance, because I’m not trying to impress you, I’m trying to
take care of you.

It’s a narrow passage that asks people to brush past each other. Light that always feels a
little too sharp for the space. A stretch of wall where the paint has been touched up more
than once, the texture slightly different under the fingertips if you ever graze it
absentmindedly. There’s a draft that smells faintly of old paper and metal, like a door that
opens and closes too often. And there’s a spot where the sound changes, where footsteps
dull for a few steps, as if the building itself learned to swallow secrets there.

You know exactly what I’m talking about. I can feel it in you as you read. That careful
stillness again, the one you wear when your instincts and your logic start negotiating.

Here’s what I’m going to do with the fact that I know it. I’m going to use it as a reason to
be practical, not dramatic.

The world has been a little too close to you lately. People’s eyes lingering one beat longer
than they should, attention that doesn’t feel earned. I’m not saying you’re in danger. I’m
saying you deserve to move through your life without feeling observed like a display in a
window. That’s where I come in, if you’ll let me.

I’m going to make you a promise that doesn’t trap you. It doesn’t demand anything from
you. It simply places me where I’m most useful.

If you feel watched, you look for my hands first. They will be steady. If you need a buffer, I
will become it. If you want space, I’ll give you that too. You keep control. I keep the
perimeter.

And because you and I both have a taste for rules when they’re the right kind, I’m setting
one that exists for your comfort, not my ego.

From now on, that narrow place, the one that swallows sound, is not somewhere you take
on by yourself.

You already know the protest you could make. You could tell me you can handle yourself. I
believe you. I also believe that being capable has never meant you had to do everything
alone. Let me be the part that makes it easier.

I can hear you teasing me, too, the way you would if we were close enough for your
shoulder to brush mine. Something like, “You always this bossy?” I’d give you a look and
let it hang there, and then I’d soften it with the truth. Care looks firm on me. It always has.

To keep this from turning too intense, I’ll give you a small detail to smile at. My jacket
smells like clean leather and a trace of soap, the kind that clings to warm fabric after a
long day. It has a weight to it that makes people stand a little straighter when it lands over
their shoulders. I’ve seen it happen. It’s almost funny. Almost.

If you want it, it’s yours to borrow whenever the world feels too bright. No ceremony. No
strings. You can hand it back the moment you’re done, or keep it for as long as you like.
Think of it as a portable boundary, a simple shelter you can put on and feel your breathing
widen. I like the idea of you walking around wrapped in something that has protected me
from weather and grit. I like it more that it would be protecting your peace.

And because you seem to bring out the part of me that writes when I should be sleeping,
here are your two lines. Spare. Honest. The kind you can fold into your pocket:

If the world presses in, I will give you room.

If your pulse runs wild, I will hold the calm.

There’s something else I want you to know, and I’m saying it plainly because you deserve
clarity. My attention is deliberate. It’s chosen. It doesn’t wander. You will not have to
compete for it, perform for it, or earn it twice. You can show up as you are, even on your
sharp-edged days, and I will meet you with the same steadiness.

After you read this, if you decide you want to answer, keep our rule. One unedited
sentence. Tell me what helps you feel safest when you’re being seen. Tell me what kind of
presence you want at your side when the air gets too crowded.

Until then, keep your chin up, keep your keys in your hand, and keep the leather close if
you want it.

From here on, you do not enter that space alone, Sweetheart, and that is me being careful
with you.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: calm
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

I was reading through my old LJ entries...all the way back to 2000. There were names I miss seeing.

What are you guys doing now? I hope life has treated you well.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: Book on Audible

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The Monster Under Your Bed

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