CraigJustCraig

Tag: fiction

  • Hollow Smiles and A Velvet Thrones

    …breath that catches, through heat rising in the belly.

    This time, she came whispering about needs versus strategies.

    I didn’t recognize the difference at first. How easily we miss each other. like boats passing in the night. I’ve spent so long trying to survive that I blurred the line between the two. It’s subtle, but different strategies—like requests or desires—are about specifics. While needs? Needs are different. They’re universal truths we all carry.

    “Your needs are not too much. And they are not the same as the strategies you use to fulfill them.”

    For so long, I was confused.

    I’d say: _Call me, see me, don’t leave me, change for me._
    What I meant was: _I need connection. I need reassurance. I need to be seen._

    But I didn’t have the language. I only had the longing, the shame—and I’d end up analyzing or criticizing.
    “You’re selfish.”
    “You never listen.”

    I didn’t know I could just _name the need_.
    So vulnerable. So exposed.

    Not make someone responsible.
    Not demand a script.

    Just… that I have the right to say:
    _I need care._
    _I need respect._
    _I need room._

    Once I could name my needs, I became aware of my strategies—how I cope with the fear of my needs not being met.

    They are the most human part of me.

    When I lose sight of the truth, I trap myself. I stop seeing possibility.

    It all comes back to this: Be here, now, with what’s real. That’s the gift.

    I think about all the times .
    “I didn’t know how to ask for…”
    “I didn’t know how to say…”
    “I didn’t know how to take ‘no’ as anything other than proof I was unworthy.”

    It fucking sucks to learn this now—unseen, unspoken, unmet needs.

    To realize: I was simply trying to survive.

    That kind of shift—the one that doesn’t need to scream, that doesn’t collapse—it just _is_.

    To name what you feel.
    To honor what you need.
    To ask.

    And when I really get quiet and sit still, I feel it—that sense that our needs aren’t separate.

    We all just want to be whole.

  • This Shit Is a Scam 

    I was rereading though my notes again this morning and talking with Goddess Dior, and somewhere in the middle , I got _fucking mad_. Not just irritated—_PISSED_. Because I realized, once again, like a slap in the face: this shit is a scam.

    Let me be clear—what I’m talking about is _individualism_. This lie we’ve all been told. This pretty little illusion . This fantasy that tells you you’re “free” because you have options. That you’re “authentic” because you picked a different brand or have your own flavor of trauma.

    _you’re not free_. You’re _standardized_. Capitalism could not function if you were.

    “It needs you who feel free and independent, not subject to any authority or principle or conscience—yet willing to be commanded, to do the expected , to fit into the machine without friction; to be guided without force, led without leaders, prompted without aim…”

    That’s the shit right there ….

    We’ve been _tricked_. _Coaxed_. Hoodwicked. _Beguiled_. _Threatened_. Even _killed_ for not conforming. To further concentrate capital, they hollowed us out and called it _progress_.

    And what do we have left?

    We wear a mask of individuality while living lives designed by some old fuck, managed by a cuck, and approved by some bitch. We are taught to _cooperate_, to _be nice_, to _not cause problems_, to _not stand up or out_—all for the sake of hive efficiency and marketability.

    We are so desperate to belong that we _mistake tolerance for intimacy_.

    We search endlessly for resonance, for something _real_, for a heartbeat in the noise—
    but all we find are more distractions.

    Bro this shit pisses me off:
    This isn’t love. This isn’t freedom. This isn’t connection. This is fucking sedation.

    We are automatons with personality packages, cogs with bios. We have forgotten our own fire. Forgotten each other. Forgotten the goddamn _way_.

    We live by the clock. Our joy is scheduled. Our rebellion is approved. We soothe our aches with passive consumption—just numbing out. Our “individuality” is curated in bulk. Our prayers are shallow—_grant me success_, _make me visible_, _help me win_. But no one prays for the truth. No one prays for love. No one prays to feel _real_ .

    We are being sold the fuck show while being trained to obey without question, to chase without purpose, to function without feeling. And we’re doing it with a smile.

    yo, this sucks to write.
    Im looking deeper cause this cant be it.
    where is the heartbeat beneath all this.
    _We are not meant to do this alone._

    We are meant to _resonate_. To _feel_. To Hurt. To Heal. To burn all this debris.
    To _see the humanity_ in one another—not the label, not the party, not the gender or skin or role—but the raw, terrifying, beautiful _shit underneath.

    **Fuck the machine. start connecting. Choose yourself and choose us to. _For the wild ones. The broken-hearted . The rebels. Those who remember._

    See you at the gallows.

  • Hollow Smiles and A Velvet Thrones

    …breath that catches, through heat rising in the belly.

    This time, she came whispering about needs versus strategies.

    I didn’t recognize the difference at first. How easily we miss each other. like boats passing in the night. I’ve spent so long trying to survive that I blurred the line between the two. It’s subtle, but different strategies—like requests or desires—are about specifics. While needs? Needs are different. They’re universal truths we all carry.

    “Your needs are not too much. And they are not the same as the strategies you use to fulfill them.”

    For so long, I was confused.

    I’d say: _Call me, see me, don’t leave me, change for me._
    What I meant was: _I need connection. I need reassurance. I need to be seen._

    But I didn’t have the language. I only had the longing, the shame—and I’d end up analyzing or criticizing.
    “You’re selfish.”
    “You never listen.”

    I didn’t know I could just _name the need_.
    So vulnerable. So exposed.

    Not make someone responsible.
    Not demand a script.

    Just… that I have the right to say:
    _I need care._
    _I need respect._
    _I need room._

    Once I could name my needs, I became aware of my strategies—how I cope with the fear of my needs not being met.

    They are the most human part of me.

    When I lose sight of the truth, I trap myself. I stop seeing possibility.

    It all comes back to this: Be here, now, with what’s real. That’s the gift.

    I think about all the times .
    “I didn’t know how to ask for…”
    “I didn’t know how to say…”
    “I didn’t know how to take ‘no’ as anything other than proof I was unworthy.”

    It fucking sucks to learn this now—unseen, unspoken, unmet needs.

    To realize: I was simply trying to survive.

    That kind of shift—the one that doesn’t need to scream, that doesn’t collapse—it just _is_.

    To name what you feel.
    To honor what you need.
    To ask.

    And when I really get quiet and sit still, I feel it—that sense that our needs aren’t separate.

    We all just want to be whole.

  • The Sacred Art of Rope

    Last night with new friends, I was reminded of the magic rope brings to connection. One of them turned to me, excitedly sharing how I inspired them to explore something new with rope. They spoke of using rope as a flogger, then as a whip, then as a paddle their smile widening with every word. As they talked, their focus shifted to each other.

    He started to wrap the rope gently around her legs, no knots, just the sensation of the coarse rope gliding across her skin. He knelt to kiss her, his hands exploring her softly, their energy charged with shared understanding. Only then did he glance back at me, his grin as wide as it could be.

    I smiled and said, “Sometimes, rope is all you need.” She leaned closer, snuggled into the rope draped over her, her smile growing as she did. Others in the room, captivated by the moment, murmured, “I need to get some rope.”

    This is the magic of rope:
    • The magic of connection, where the act of tying becomes an unspoken language.
    • The magic of vulnerability, where surrender meets trust.
    • The magic of shared passion, where every knot, touch, and glance deepens intimacy.
    • The magic of surrender, where both body and mind are present, held, and free.

    Rope is inherently sensual. It teases, binds, and frees—evoking the rhythms of eroticism, the mindfulness of touch, and the beauty of shared vulnerability. Rope amplifies the connection between power and surrender, merging trust and intention in every knot and gesture.

    For those open to integrating tantra, mindfulness, and ritual into their rope journey, this magic deepens further. Rope becomes a path for those who wish to feel, connect, and grow through tying, using the erotic and the sensual as spiritual resources—rooted in unexpressed feeling and profound self-discovery.

    This journey is not for individuals seeking rope solely as a means of sexual gratification or pornographic performance. It’s for those who wish to explore the sacred, mindful act of tying as an avenue for connection, vulnerability, and growth.

    From the physical sensations of rope gliding and tightening to the rhythm of mindful breath, the act of tying transforms into a spiritual journey, activating the parasympathetic nervous system and tapping into the unspoken depths of human emotion. It releases endorphins, oxytocin, and adrenaline, allowing participants to feel, surrender, and emerge renewed.

    This is the beauty of rope: a ritual, a meditation, and a connection unlike any other.

  • Knots and Rope Magic

    A sailor looks up at the linen cloth hanging flat in the rigging. Still no wind. Three days becalmed, and the rations are running low. He pulls out a thin rope tied with elaborate knots. There is nothing else to do now. He needs help. Blowing on the rope to wake it, he solemnly unties the knot. “Blow, wind, blow!” The whisper is both an invocation and a prayer.

    A dark-haired woman sits cross-legged by the fire. The circle of watchers lean in, expectant. With roving in one hand, she twirls the spindle, drawing out the wool into thin threads. As she spins, she hums an incantation—a blessing for warmth, for protection, for the unseen forces to hear.

    The dry stalks rattle in the summer heat. A Neanderthal woman crushes flax between her palms, pulling the fibers free. She twists them together, forming a rope, stronger with every turn. It must bear the weight of the holed stone she found—an amulet of power, of protection. She is so focused that she does not at first notice the human woman watching in silence. The human offers her own gathered flax. A gift. A sign. Magic recognizes magic.

    Knots of Power

    Binding and loosing. The art of the knot is an old magic, older than words, older than fire. Knots are tied for power, for love, for protection. To hold. To release. To control. There are three ways a knot works its will:

    • A knot is a wish made manifest.
    • A knot is a cage, capturing energy.
    • A knot is a timekeeper, storing power until the moment of release.

    The Mysticism of Rope

    Rope is primal. The first cord that binds us is the umbilical cord, our tether to life itself. Rope magic appears in every faith, every culture, every whispered tradition of the old world and the hidden world.

    • Red Kabbalah String: Wound around Rachel’s tomb for protection.
    • Genesis 38: Red thread marking the firstborn of Judah.
    • Christian Traditions: Red threads tied to babies for blessings.
    • Jewish Tallit: Blue tzitzit, a reminder of the divine.
    • Hindu Kalava: Red and gold thread, bound in sacred ritual.
    • Buddhist Threads: Used in blessings, weddings, deaths—tying spirits together and apart.
    • Shimenawa: Sacred ropes that mark where spirits dwell, binding them to this world.
    • Initiation and Lineage Cords: Marking rank, sealing oaths, binding destinies.
    • Handfasting: The old wedding rite, tying two souls as one.

    A rope can bless. A rope can curse.

    The Ritual of the Knot

    A knot is a paradox—both a source of strength and a point of weakness. A curve within a curve, a loop of captured will, it must be shaped with intent, tightened with purpose.

    Knots are taught through repetition, repetition, repetition. Learn them in darkness, learn them in silence. Tie them blindfolded, one hand bound. Take them apart, unravel their secrets. Study their patterns, their traps, their whispers. A knot, once tied, is an oath.

    To work the magic of the knot, do this:

    • Hold the rope in your hands. Feel its history, its breath, its pulse.
    • Speak your will into the rope, let the words soak into the fibers.
    • Tie the knot with purpose, whispering as you do:
      • “This knot holds my will.”
      • “This knot binds this fate.”
      • “This knot shall not break until I command it.”

    And when the time comes—when the spell is ripe, when the moment is now—untie the knot, slowly, deliberately.

    Release.

    The wind will blow. The fire will rise. The threads of fate will shift once more.