The crumpled page
I am so confused. I didn't sleep last night. Needing to be alone and quiet, I
made an excuse to not immediately go to the mat after returning home from the
tavern. I sat at the hearth, the darkness of the room nearly complete except for
the remaining ember glow from the fire. Sitting with my thoughts didn't help. I
feared sleep because of the recurring dream I have.
In the dream, I am alone in the middle of the Great Room, just as I was last
night. I can't write about this yet. It is part of why I am so confused and why
I .....
On earth I am considered educated, intelligent and creative. I have been told I
am striking to look at, one or two have even used the word 'beautiful.' I didn't
think about it. My camera was more important to me than my make-up bag. I
indulged myself with good boots and expensive perfume. I was far better at
conversation than flirtation.
Here I have begun to realize many of the things I valued about myself have
little, if any, meaning. I am one of many females and last night it struck me
that they are all beautiful. I am nothing particularly special. They serve
better, know their positions and will happily, smiling brightly perform whatever
task or hold whatever position a Master commands. They do not need to speak.
Their movements are beautifully descriptive. All in stark contrast to me.
I can fool myself in the privacy of this house that there is something unique
about the slave joy. There is no self piteous whining in that statement. It is
fact. The others perform better. I have seen it for myself. And if I have seen
the public behavior as being superior to mine, I can only imagine how much more
creative they are privately.
The slave joy is not a simple girl. She is efficient.
She leaps to her feet, pushing back from the table in the kitchens of Samsara.
Her hand slaps to the center of the page, fingers splayed outward and curling
back, tugging at the page and crumpling it. It remains attached to the
thick-bound journal. The door from the kitchen leading outside bangs once ...
twice behind her as she runs. In her haste to escape her thoughts, she leaves
the book on the table, a half-filled cup of blackwine next to it.