the small blue dot

“Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there–on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”

Carl Sagan wrote this in response to images taken on the 14th February 1990 by Voyager 1 which was looking back at us from some 4 billion odd miles; whatever you were doing that day, Voyager captured an image of your world illuminated by a ray of light from the sun the vastness of your imaginings nothing more than a pale, blue, dot.  If you have never seen these images I would recommend you do; they put so much into perspective. Rather like understanding who you are against the vastness of Twitter, the millions of users, the trillions of posts, the billions of interactions every day. Who are these people that follow you? What makes you or me of interest to them? Why should they stay? What makes them too lazy to leave even when interest has long passed, or block, or mute, or just leave that sad message ‘I’m leaving’ another twittercide and a reincarnation days later hunting out the same people?

I have these thoughts, why me? What am I giving to your line that makes it worth staying, or are the silent majority just too lazy to leave an an extra number validates your world?

What do you imagine of me if you have never met me? What are you piecing together from images, small sound clips, my rare personal expressions beyond the banalities of getting up eating food the ‘fillers’. Do you know how long it takes to wash and dry my precious ropes when I’ve spent time wrapping, photographing someone. Yes I take photographs, people like them. Intimate snapshots of their body silhouetted by my mind’s eye and my touch. Altered by their eyes to enhance shadows or colour, crop to hide the laundry on the floor just over their shoulder. Do you imagine how my voice can encourage and develop someone to try a steel hook anally for the first time, or to increase the pain they can tolerate from clamps or floggers or even a cane. Have you thought that, harsh as I can be, I can also be the quietest breath in your hair as I hold your shuddering frame, in the heaving tearful aftermath as your outpourings flood the room. A casket of so many secrets. That is why some of you meet me. The privacy to be you, whether it is a you that after one coffee, one skype session, retreat elsewhere unable to step into my reality, or those who have gone further, go further. Which ever camp, I never speak of you, never identify you, afford you the dignity of retreat where it is merited. You are after all people populating my small patch of that pale blue dot.

Or are you someone who prefers to just create a persona for those you follow? Would it interest you at all to know that at the moment I am reading 3 books, Sociodynamics: a systematic approach to mathematical modelling in the social sciences (Wolfgang Weidlich); Glimpses of the Moon (Edmund Crispin) and Japanese Fortified Temples and Monasteries AD 710-1062 (Stephen Turnbull). Knowing that, had I for example put it on my bio, would you still have followed?  Or would knowing about my plans to fuck people, what toys or rope I think would suit their body, their awakenings, would that interest you more? How do you grade those of us who share your ether world? Do you assume because some of us say so little about our own sex lives that we’re not having any? Or that those who shout from the rooftops ‘protest too much’? Do you find yourself feeling more unequal to the task of being the you you have created?

I know that my twitter world includes people I have grown to care for, contacts maintained even when they have long left the 140 bubble. People whose bodies, tastes, sounds I can still recall in an instant. Some I would rewrite time for to relive those moments or make that extra step to engage. I share my pale blue dot with thoughts of the you I imagine simple unlabelled sex with.

I wish you joy of yours. The small world that actually touches you, develops and enhances you in all ways, and always.

May it continue to be one that illuminates mine in that random rare sunbeam too.

 

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