Mindspace

Let's talk about soul bonds; though the burning sands of time in the endless circle of the universe the crimson red ribbons of fate have bound us.

Reborn we are over and again, souls searching the infinite depths of life searching for one another; a twin flame among forest fire run rampant. 

For much of our lives we search for that other the matching flames in which you desperately crave. The lone swan in search if it's forever mate, crying into the darkness begging for an answer. 

Like the oceans rise and fall with the moon we, souls, beings of light an dark, move and flow with time in its ever-going loop. We adjust to new obstacles and adapt to hardships, amazing creatures we are, and yet..

All we ever want is a person(s) to love us for whom we truly are inside, in all of our joy and pain. In all of our sorrows and anger. In all of our pleasures and peeves. A leaf on a tree perfectly blocking the sun from your eyes. 

To be blessed with such an opportunity is like being blessed with a child; rare and commonly given to thoes whom don't deserve it.

When I am faced with a chance meeting...a string of kind words that caress your cheek with such tenderness it makes you want to cry, I will not squander it. I will always work hard to become better, a better person; kinder and more understanding. A better partner; patient and open. A better soul; pure and simple. 

This is my promise to you Master. 

I will always work hard to make you proud. I will always be kind and listen to your plights, I will always serve you fully to calm your waring soul. I will always bring you joy by being myself. 

I will always love you for all that you are and what you still have to become. 

This slave loves her Master. 

-Pandaish

Let's talk about blessings; small as a simple shell on the beach, beautifully hidden amongst the sand and sea glass, dazzling as it reflects the buring sun. 

Sometimes blessings show themselves in compassionate likeness; a passion of words, spinning like a spell in the air, they melt and form into an image so incredibly vivid; a gypsies ribbon on the purple moor. 

They come and take months to see; a shadow following, in every corner they wait for you to reach out your hand of light and meet them halfway. They are there, if you are willing to see and grasp them. 

There is a beautiful complexity in a person; a never ending canvas, different colors schemes for different phases of our lives, how unique every single one is, how exquisite. With complexity comes loneliness; a waltz in an abandoned ballroom only the single swish of movement can be heard. 

Until at one moment there are hands around your waist, warmth against your back; a flame in a hearth on a snowy winters evening. There is hot breath upon your ear, a hand around your throat; a cool glass clear pool on a summers day. 

Blessings come in all shapes and sizes; a light touch on your cheek, a strong fist in your hair. There are thoes we have yet to discover and yet to earn and that is the elegance in blessings. They are infinite. 

I have found my most recent blessing in my Master and my Beast; a compassionate set of arms to keep me warm and a frighteningly sharp set of claws to keep me safe.

If this Slave is to never get another blessing in her life, if she has forsaken the being of all beings then so be it. For she had her Master and her Beast, and then home in which their arms incircled is all I have ever wanted, had ever hoped for. If I were to get anything more at all; they would a blessing. 

-Pandaish

Let's talk about loneliness, in a room full of people; a turtle doves woeful call not answered. There is something about feeling alone; a darkness at the edges of your heart that you feel constantly. 

There are some days when it's ok, when you can smile and joke, but then,

You feel it. At the edges of your conscious mind; blackness. 

You see it. I'm the faces of your friends as the lovingly gaze into eachothers eyes; pain. 

It consumes you. As a ravenous beast inhales it's most recent kill; blood stains it's maw, merciless. You can't fight it, you're not strong enough. It's claws fuse to your bones and meld with your muscle. 

Skin to skin: a canvas of splicing.

Sinew to sinew: you won't ever escape. 

A simple emotion...defined plainly yet when one tries to show someone or explain in words it always falls short. Exhausted, you stop trying to explain, to reach out to others.

Eventually, a simple touch on the arm, can cause the tears to fall. 

Loneliness is something I fight with constantly. I wonder if there will ever be a day, where I don't feel this way, and I accept that there won't. 

-Pandaish

I have this dream where I am stranded on an island; small and searing with the sun; not merciful. The sound of emptiness and waves.

I sing out lines or prose, rhymes and rhythms, beats and melodies. A prayer to anyone who can see and hear me, as I sing... for someone.

Anyone. 

I beg for someone to stay; to be here with me or take me away; a bird eloping through the sky in an intricate dance of forever vows. 

Don't visit me here on this lonely island, don't come to view the beauty and experience the wildlife and leave me..here.

Alone.

On this island, as the sun sets each day I realize how close I am to so may other islands, some bustling with laughter and life. And I realize that thoes passing through...already had an island all their own. 

No one was going to save me from this island... I just had to hope someone decided that what it had to offer...meager as it may be.. was enough. 

-Pandaish. 

On most years I consider it a nominal tradition; a bench in a park year after year used and neglected. 

For one year is was the worst day of my life; a scar on a tree only causing a knot to forever form. 

This year I stayed busy and happy, today is just as another; I became redundant, serving all to numb my mind from the pain lurking in the shadow of the mountain of pleasure. 

This year....I might be happy; growth from the caterpillar to the butterfly I gasp as the breath of new joy wells within bursting from lungs a melody of....me.

Dare I embrace this feeling.. this radiating glow that has become overwhelming? Dare I embrace my lust? Dare I beg for it. 

All I want...is to be used.  I want to he the party favor you'll never forget.

I want to serve. 

I need to serve. 

Please, Master, allow me to be who I am, a hot slut with a desire to please in every way. 

"Blow out the candles." Master whisper in my ear. " What do you wish for?" He asks.

Dare I? Dare I speak?

-Pandaish

There is something about the incandescent need to serve; the sweet caress, Mother of Pearl against your cheek cooling your fever. 

The soul deep desire to please not just the Center of Your Universe but anyone who gets pleasure from your natural demeanor like your flame ignites thoes around you soon there is a blaze swallowing you whole, deliciously hot. 

You are cool clay freshly moldable, over and over you can change to be what they desire. Anything they desire. A cloud in the sky flowing with the wind. 

You were put on this earth to be owned; pleasure gained from pleasure given you need to make their world whole. You want to fill the holes in their lives, any inconvenience removed from their view. Pleasure coming from their ease. 

You are a slave; a nymph on a leash you whine with the need to please. Begging your Master to be let loose on the world and bring joy and pleasure. A light on the darkness to many. 

Master is generous he allows special people access to your flame, but when does this flame loose her glow, when others come and go used then left, why did she let them in for free?

Start charging she will, not in cash, no, but in effort. She may entertain, but you must prove you are willing to stay when it's time to help feed the flame, so she may burn bright again. 

Are you brave enough, most are not. The sweet past the bitter is more then any one person can handle. Teeth rotting, all consuming. Just a taste and you will not regret. Come say hi and see how far you get. 

-Pandaish

As a small child, this slave was painted in scars. Like chalk on the sidewalk she was beautifully broken; rainbow dust covering the ugly ground. 

As a teen, she was told not to show her scars, as they were unbecoming of a young lady; a marred gash in a porcelain doll. 

As a woman, she was told her scars are all for attention; a scream in a soundproof room, tears under the ocean. 

As a slave, her scars are part of her complex and unique story; a new ichor on a sculpture, a new nick in the wood. 

This slaves scars are but small bits of a big picture, but as bits do they weigh on her soul. When she sees them covering her body she sees pain, and happiness, sadness and grief. 

When Master sees her scars, he see flowers; a meadow filled with all the colors in the world swaying in the breeze. He sees the beautiful slave, the sad slave, the angry slave and the lustful slave.

And he still chooses this slave. My Master. 

-Pandaish.

A new story is about to be written; not by pen or quill, no, but by a gun. As constant as the cicada on a hot summer Tuesday afternoon; the needles drill against its canvas. 

A canvas as soft as silk; a warm breeze over the ocean. Soon will be marred with the marks of memories swirling around in my head. 

As desperate as I am to rid myself of them they are as desperate to be written; to be seen in all its ugly splendor. 

Vines of green and blooms of blue a tie to my heart. Encircling my shoulder in such tender caresses as it paints an image of my life's journey. 

A journey of California, deep in my veins as deep as the mountains swallowed my hometown. Sunsets, ocean breeze, crickets and honking horns. 

All in one single image; simple in its grace it tells a story of growth, a story of love; blossoms of self. In the eye of the bird my soul is bared there on my skin. 

Stark in contrast to my pale complexion; blood upon the snow. Get the voice out of my head and onto its canvas so I can show instead of tell. 

I am a rock; inconsequential on the side of the road just pretty enough to notice. 

I am the meadow; plain half of the year as my soul sleeps, alive and vibrant during the yang I am energy contagious. 

I am an Emerald; born in May I am the child of spring as I grow into the heat of summer. A deep green aura surrounds this vessel. 

I am the tree; roots holding me to my heart as my hands and fingers reach earnestly for the sky above. 

He is the air; essential for life He completes who I am. Only whole with Him in my lungs.

He is the clouds; cool and collected He glides through life. Taking the sky by storm, only showing like when needed. 

He is the rain; sent to wash away all the negative prints in my body, all the scars that cover my soul and my mind. Freeing me to become more. 

He is my sky; the other half to my soul that I have been searching for. The Hand around my neck, the lead attached to my collar. 

He is My Master. 

-Pandaish. 

Today this slave is making Master a special cake. There isn't any special occasion, no day of birth or anniversary; a new star that has born in the cosmos in a blast of a trillion fireflies thousands of years ago only now blooming in our sky. 

The dry ingredients first, a simple array of cake flower; light and fluffy. Sugar; granulated and sweet as sin. Baking powder to help it rise to the heavens like the arms of the devoted and salt, for balancing and purifying the pallet. 

This slave mixes the butter and sugar slowly. The steady rhythm of my wooden spoon against the mixing bowl. 

Then the wet ingredients all measured out perfectly; buttermilk for the creamy texture on his lips, a silk kiss. Vanilla, fresh off the bean this slave scrapes the rines. Eggs, fresh collected this morning to help richen the mixture. Butter; yellow and smooth for the bounce in its sponge. 

Next are the eggs beaten in slowly one at a time. With each crack, this slave imagins Masters eyes close in ecstasy as his lips wrap around his sweet treat. Presented to him when finished. 

The flower, baking powder and salt are added to the butter and sugar mixture. This slave laughs a little as it fluffs up and into her face, a streak across her cheek; the hazards of art. Then buttermilk last, a satain stream of thick liquid mixes into her sweet batter filled bowl. 

Now she must butter the pan and pour this delicious surprise into it, baking at 350 for 15 min. 

The frosting is next while the cake bakes, a warm bed of the finest quality. 

This slave adds cream, fresh from her friend farm this morn. Butter softened to room temp for easier mixing, vanilla fresh, harvested earlier with delicate fingers and salt for balance and purification, the most important part of my treat. 

As the cake is pulled out and cooling I make some fruity pebbles rice crispies to add on top in cute little shapes. 

Butter, marshmallow and the pebbles are all that's needed. His childhood favorite will be added with love, to help him remember the good times of old. 

The frosting is added to the cool cake; smoothed with care, every detail must be perfect. Will Master like this gift? 

This slave is now covered in flower and frosting in random places, she doesn't remember how she got so messy. As she cuts the crispies into little star shapes and standing them at the base of this cake for a little dash of her heart as well. 

Now this slave must wait for her Master to come home, and for dinner to be finished, so that she may show him her finished product. 

A cake for her Master. 

-Pandaish