CraigJustCraig

Tag: writing

  • Not My Shadow, Not My War

    Carl Jung once said that “the most dangerous psychological mistake is the projection of the shadow onto others.”
    I feel that on this holiday break. Most conflict: interpersonal, communal, spiritual, starts when someone wrestling their own darkness mistakes you for their battleground.

    I used to think I could avoid this if I just explained myself well enough… moved gently enough… was compassionate “enough.”
    But I can’t outrun someone else’s shadow. It walks with them—cast on me.

    What I can do is learn to recognize the moment their shadow lands on me.

    For me, the first sign is intensity.
    Not every disagreement or discomfort is a projection. Humans clash all the time. Personalities don’t always mix: different values, different morals, different goals, different perspectives, different trauma, different strategies for getting needs met. I get that. That’s normal.
    But when the emotional charge is strong, out of proportion for what happened, or strangely personal… that’s usually not about me. That’s their shadow searching for a new battleground.

    My strategy starts with simple observation:

    Notice the flare.
    When someone’s reaction is harder than the situation called for, I pause. I feel it, but I let it pass.

    Acknowledge it instead of fighting it.
    If I argue with their projection, it only grows. Shadows get stronger when you deny them.

    Name what’s happening.
    Not out loud, but to myself: “This is not about me. This person is projecting.”
    That one sentence keeps me from internalizing their story.

    Stay rooted.
    Their shadow doesn’t overwrite my truth.
    Who decided their darkness swallowed my sun?
    The only one who can decide that is me.

    And sometimes the simplest thing you can do is let their shadow pass like a wave hitting a rock.

    The goal isn’t to be liked or understood, but to see clearly—your shadow and theirs—and not let either pull you out of yourself.

    How do you deal with it when someone’s shadow tries to make you their mirror?

  • The Chalice That Never Empties

    They say: “You’re only ENM because you want to cheat without guilt.”

    But those words are shallow, spoken by mouths that fear the depth of truth.

    If I hungered only for pleasure without consequence, I could do what so many men already do: lie.

    Whisper sweet nothings. Pretend at devotion. Disguise betrayal with flowers and empty vows.

    That is the easy path. The coward’s path.

    But my life is built on integrity sharpened into steel.

    I do not lie. I do not shrink.

    I stand in the open, naked in truth.

    To speak my desire aloud is to invite judgment, to summon contempt.

    But I accept that crucifixion.

    Because ENM is not escape. It is not indulgence.

    It is covenant. Expansion. A refusal to mutilate the heart into scarcity when it was forged for abundance.

    Monogamy has often felt like a cell:

    twenty-three hours in confinement, one hour of stale air.

    But ENM — ah, ENM is the sky without walls,

    a storm with no horizon,

    a freedom tempered by responsibility.

    Do not mistake me: I do not love less when I love more.

    Each bond burns with its own fire.

    Each person receives the fullness of me.

    I am cursed and blessed, like a priest whose chalice never empties —

    no matter how many drink, the wine remains.

    Sometimes love awakens in the smallest spark:

    two hands brushing in passing, a flash of lightning across the skin.

    Why should I chain that current, forbid the seed to sprout,

    simply because another flower already blooms in my garden?

    Love is not a ration. It is not prison food.

    Love multiplies. Love overflows. Love is infinite.

    And ENM is not only love — it is architecture.

    It is the building of life outside the blueprint of scarcity.

    Shared burdens, lightened by many hands.

    Finances braided into ropes that climb us out of poverty into legacy.

    An emotional ecosystem — one soul offering peace, another fire, another laughter, another wisdom.

    No single person crushed under the impossible weight of “everything.”

    This is not chaos. This is design.

    This is not cheating. This is covenant.

    A web woven with honesty, accountability, expansion.

    So I say: stop fearing abundance.

    Stop caging infinity.

    Stop binding the heart to scarcity when it was born to overflow.

    I do not choose ENM because I must.

    I choose it because I can.

    Because my blood sings freedom.

    Because my heart refuses to shrink.

    Because love is too vast, too holy, too dangerous to ever be caged.

    ✨ Love without limits. Build without boundaries. Live without fear. ✨

  • Cinematic Kink Style Guide

    https://www.tumblr.com/knottydevil/784803435706023936/taking-a-moment-to-appreciate-all-my-hard-work

    This is not casual content. This is an erotic sermon, a ritual of rope, flesh, and shadow. Every video, every photo, every edit must feel like it belongs to a dangerous, Sensual covenant of reverence and abandon.

    Core Principles

    1. Erotic, Sensual, Not Porn
      • Show rope as sacred, sensual, and ritualistic.
      • Focus on the experience of surrender and control, not explicit sex.
      • Every shot should feel like a rite, a ceremony.
    2. Hedonistic Debauchery with Discipline
      • Erotic excess paired with restraint.
      • Rope, sweat, firelight, bruises, and breath as offerings.
      • Decadence that feels earned through discipline and ritual.
    3. Dark Sermon Energy
      • The voice is commanding, alluring, dangerous.
      • Captions and titles should read like scripture or chants/evocations.
      • Example: “We are a sanctuary of the erotic, the sacred, the profane, the sensual, and the spiritual.”

    Visual Aesthetic

    • Color Palette:
      • Black (dominant, the void).
      • Blood red (desire, ritual, offering).
      • Candlelight gold (warmth, intimacy).
      • Occasional stark white (purity/contrast).
    • Lighting:
      • Low, moody, .
      • Shadow is as important as light.
      • Rope and skin should glow against darkness.
    • Textures:
      • Rough rope, slick sweat, soft skin, flickering flame.
      • Make the viewer feel they could reach out and touch it.
    • Framing:
      • Tight close-ups (rope digging into flesh, hands trembling).
      • Wide shots that feel like altarpieces (body displayed as an offering).
      • Never casual — every frame intentional, cinematic.

    Editing Style

    • Pacing: Slow, hypnotic, commanding. Allow tension to build.
    • Transitions: Sharp cuts, fades to black, flashes of red — like ritual steps.
    • Sound:
      • Heavy breathing, rope creaks, ambient drones, whispered chants.
      • Music should feel primal, cinematic, ritualistic — not pop.

    Language & Captions

    • Use short, declarative phrases — commands, invocations, scripture.
    • Avoid casual tone. Nothing explanatory.
    • Examples:
      • “Obedience is Ecstasy.”
      • “Every Knot is a Prayer.”
      • “Surrender is the Only Freedom.”

    Emotional Tone

    • Dangerous but irresistible.
    • Erotic but elevated.
    • Always balancing: pleasure and pain, beauty and menace, surrender and power.

    In essence: The style is erotic art masquerading as a cult ritual — cinematic, provocative, and unapologetically hedonistic. Every video, every image should feel like an initiation.

    Me

    Sep 17, 8:54 AM

  • Village of Ecstasy

    We all dream of a village. Not just any village—one where kink, curiosity, and desire flow like water. Where bodies, shadows, and whispers meet in intentional communion. Where no one hides behind guilt, shame, or the weight of the world outside. Where we wade out this hellscape together, barefoot in devotion, hands sticky with rope and candle wax, hearts wide.

    ✨ Here’s the truth: this village does not grow on its own. It grows because we show up. Because we lean in. Because we dare to play, connect, and create it together.

    Be a Villager, Not a Spectator
    You want sparks? Start them. You want rope scenes, breathless eyes, and whispered yeses? Be the first to tie, the first to touch, the first to say yes. The energy you crave doesn’t appear—it is conjured, one small act at a time.

    The Garden Runs on Care, Not Attendance
    Help. Hold. Clean. Teach. Share. Show up with energy. Offer your time, your presence, your devotion. The village feeds on shared labor, on sweat and attention. Magic emerges when hands and hearts converge.

    Consent Is Our Pulse
    Consent is ritual. Boundaries are sacred. Respect is erotic. This is the heartbeat of our village, the altar upon which every scene, glance, and touch is offered. You cannot fake it. You cannot shortcut it. You cannot skip it.

    Play Is Prayer
    Every gasp, tremor, whispered yes—these are offerings. Every indulgence, every exploration, every dive into shadow and taboo is devotion. Pleasure is not distraction—it is communion. Desire is not chaos—it is altar-fire.

    Spark, Don’t Wait
    The garden blooms because someone plants. Someone waters. Someone reaches first. You do not sit in complaint. You create. You light the candle. You tie the rope. You start the conversation. You lift the veil of shame and let curiosity guide you.

    Grow, Celebrate, Repeat
    Learn. Explore. Teach. Cheer. Hold. Repair. Accept feedback. Show gratitude. The village is alive. It thrives when we engage, when we celebrate each other’s courage, when we wield our pleasure and presence as sacred tools.

    This Village Is You
    Your ethics. Your attention. Your desire. Your courage. One touch, one glance, one rope at a time—you build it. You inhabit it. You make it sacred.

    Step in. Lean in. Play. Commune. Revel. Wade with us through shadow and ecstasy. Build the garden. Tend it. Feast in it. This is your invitation.

  • Surrender as Paradox

    Masculinity and femininity are not cages. They are archetypes. They are currents. You do not have to be a man to flow in masculine energy. You do not have to be a woman to flow in feminine. These are maps, not mandates.

    The modern world teaches us to name, to limit, to box. They build empires on fear, guilt, and obedience. They call it virtue. They call it love. They cage the soul and call it salvation. But the Tao whispers: It is and it is not. It slips through fingers, yet runs through your veins. It is the paradox of living fully, of embracing contradiction.

    You walk into shadow, not out of sin but out of curiosity. Pleasure is ritual. Indulgence is liturgy. Hedonism, taboo, debauchery—these are altars. Each gasp, each tremor, each whispered yes—a prayer written in flesh. Plant medicines, shrooms, entheogens—they open corridors of mind, gates to ecstasy, doorways where the self dissolves and the divine bleeds through muscle, bone, and blood.

    Masculinity is fire, motion, structure, force. Feminine energy births, guides, nurtures, flows. Archetypes are currents, not cages. The wound of fathers, the pain of inherited expectation—acknowledge it. But do not let it dictate your devotion. Brotherhood, communion, consent, accountability—these are your rituals. Pain is fuel, but not excuse. Desire is guide, not theft.

    The Tao is paradox. Pleasure and pain. Surrender and control. Chaos and structure. Shadow and radiance. Life and death. There is no either/or. There is only AND. Sacred kink, conscious ritual, intentional embodiment—these are the crucibles where paradox becomes revelation. Breath, sensation, trust—they are the path, the Way, the alchemy of living fully.

    The Way cannot be held, but it can be walked. The truth cannot be named, but it can be felt. It is invisible, inaudible, subtle. It is and. The sacred, the taboo, the ecstasy—they are not separate from spirit; they are the gates. Pleasure is meditation. Desire is devotion. Shadow is sacred.

    When nothing is done, nothing is left undone. Let the paradox bind you, guide you, teach you. Step fully into the shadow. Embrace the fire. Revel in the forbidden. Surrender. Indulge. Explore. Touch. Be.

    This is your altar. This is your communion. This is your liberation.

  • Discipline of Touch

    The first time I witnessed tantric massage, it was not cheap arousal, not casual play. It felt like rite and revelation. A quiet room. Breath deepening. A man trembling as skilled hands touched him not with greed but with reverence. Watching his release, I understood: this is not indulgence. This is invocation.

    Tantric massage is not some spa trick. It is ritual. It is a way of treating the lingam—the rod of life, the staff of flesh—not as a toy, not as a weapon, but as a sacred vessel. Every stroke becomes liturgy. Every pause becomes scripture. The lingam is not just genitalia—it is the altar, the axis, where pleasure becomes prayer.

    Consent is the first and last law here. Not a formality. Not a checkbox. Consent is the living breath of the ritual. Nothing begins without his yes. Nothing deepens without his yes. Every gesture is a dialogue of spirit and flesh. To proceed without it is desecration.

    And when the yes comes, the gates open. Release flows—not pornographic, not performative, but luminous. Seed and sigh, trembling and tears. His body shakes, dissolves, empties—and I am not conqueror but witness, steward, priest of his surrender.

    For him, surrender is power. To let himself be touched without shame, without performance, is rebellion. To feel pleasure without guilt is reclamation. To give himself fully is devotion. In that moment, he is both god and worshipper, both vessel and fire.

    For me, it is discipline. Devotion. To guide him toward his own release while refusing to steal it for myself. To touch without taking. To serve without conquest. His trust is the altar. His pleasure, the hymn. My role is not thief, not consumer, but conduit.

    This ritual is carnal and divine braided together. Every moan, every pulse, every whispered “yes” is both body and psalm. A sacred transaction: one offers surrender, the other offers devotion. And in the end, what remains is not orgasm—it is communion.

  • The Myth of BBC

    Every time I hear “BBC” or “Queen of Spades,” I hear chains rattling. You call it kink. I call it inheritance. Direct bloodline from slave breeding, buck breaking, and the auction block. You’re not inventing anything new—you’re just reciting the script they wrote for you.

    Look at the record. Fearing the Black Body. Killing the Black Body. Medical Apartheid. These aren’t metaphors. They’re history. White women and white men making Black flesh their experiment, their economy, their revenge toy. From the fields to the clinic to the brothel, Black sex and Black reproduction were turned into currency.

    And yet—here we are. Snow bunnies smiling, QOS branding themselves, Black men bending into roles carved centuries ago. “BBC.” Commodity. Property. A dick first, a man last. Read They Were Her Property. Those white women weren’t passive victims—they were active owners. They orchestrated the breeding, the selling, the violations. That’s your so-called “taboo” lineage.

    And don’t mistake it for liberation. You’re not flipping power. You’re not getting reparations by fucking someone’s wife. You’re just feeding into the old market, the one Cedric Robinson names in Black Marxism, the one Walter Rodney lays bare in How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. The same market that kept you bound as labor, breeder, body.

    I hear people say “don’t yuck someone’s yum.” And yes—consent matters. Choice matters. Adults can play as they will. But don’t confuse consent with context. You can choose to reenact the plantation, but don’t lie and call it freedom. Don’t pretend the whip is just a toy when the welt is still on our history.

    Read The Delectable Negro. Read Caliban and the Witch. Read Yurugu. Read Discrimination and Disparities, The Color of Law, The Color of Money. All of it points to the same truth: our flesh has been the stage for their fantasies, our bodies the engine for their wealth. To step blindly into BBC/QOS is to step willingly into that machinery.

    This isn’t about shame. It’s about clarity. Desire isn’t pure. Desire is trained. And when desire is trained through centuries of slavery, eugenics, and apartheid, you better question it before you call it “just kink.”

    You can fuck who you want. Love who you want. But if you carry those acronyms like a crown, understand: you are crowning yourself with chains.

  • The Price of Staying Close

    Sometimes being close to someone costs more than it’s worth. That isn’t just romance. It shows up in families, friendships, jobs, groups you thought were “yours.” The pattern’s simple: things shift, and staying the same stops making sense.

    Family is the hardest to walk from. Blood is supposed to mean unbreakable. But some family members don’t change. They repeat. Same fight. Same bullshit cycle. You hope the next holiday will be different, but it isn’t. At some point, you realize the only move is stepping out of the role they keep shoving you in. That doesn’t mean you don’t care. It means you’re done paying the toll with your sanity.

    Friendships rot quieter. Somebody leans too hard, or you’re the one chasing. Either way, the balance slips. You notice the weight. You carry it anyway until resentment eats the bond. Stepping back isn’t drama. It’s silence. Less calls, less texts, more space. Not exile—just not letting yourself bleed out alone on the rope.

    Work plays its own game. You become the reliable one, the fixer, the mule. People learn fast: dump it on you. Not always out of malice, just because it’s easy. The day you stop, the day you say no, suddenly you’re the bad guy. But nothing sacred broke. It was never sacred. It was just convenience, and it served them better than you.

    Stepping back here looks small. Closing the laptop. Saying no. Letting the phone ring. It’s not rebellion—it’s survival.

    Romance? That’s the stickiest trap. Love blinds. Attachment begs. You tell yourself loyalty is holy. You wait for “better.” But sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for them, for you—is distance. Enough space to see what’s real and what’s just wish.

    we’re wired to bond, and wired to protect. Those two instincts crash, and the crash feels like guilt, grief, relief—all tangled at once. No clean clarity. Just mess.

    Stepping back isn’t cruelty. It’s the line where you stop bleeding yourself dry. Ignore it too long and you’ll burn out everywhere else too. Distance gives you breath. Breath gives you sight.

    People won’t always get it. They’ll call it selfish. Cold. But stepping back is often the only way to keep something from rotting into bitterness. It’s not perfect, not painless. It’s just healthier.

  • The Gospel of Root

    I do not chase the East for its mysteries, nor the past for its ruins. I stand where I am. My feet press into this soil, and the land speaks to me. They call it Feng Shui in the East. In the West, we once called it geomancy. My ancestors called it root—the reading of earth and spirit, the listening to land. Different tongues, same truth: the earth is alive, and it shapes us if we dare to listen.

    But the West forgets itself. The seekers here, restless and estranged from their own bloodlines, chase after foreign names, foreign temples, foreign spirits, while the bones of their ancestors whisper beneath their feet, ignored. I know why the seekers wander. They feel alien in their own culture, so they borrow shrines, robes, and languages not their own. But I do not need foreign altars to know the divine. My altar is the dirt beneath me, the rivers that cut the earth, the wind that bends the trees. My root is not imported—it is remembered.

    The problem has never been the names. The problem has always been place—the spirit of the land, the pulse of location. In China, Feng Shui has been sung into the soil for a hundred generations, broken only briefly by revolution. In Europe, geomancy lived perhaps a hundred generations deep, until the sword of Christianity cut the thread. Roots severed. Memory burned. I inherit a truth split. But still, I know: tradition tied too tight can strangle.

    Even so, geomancy was more than decoration. It was weaponry, weather-work, war-magic. I see it. Those bound to the land became slaves to it. And when the conquerors came, they broke them. Because for two hundred generations, Europeans had trained a different magic: not rooted but moving, invading, devouring. Their craft was not the stillness of place but the alchemy of transformation. Detached, restless, violent—it carried them until it named itself science, but its origin was war, blood, and the refusal to be caged by land. Unrooted, adaptive, alchemical. Land harnessed not only for harmony, but for destruction, for martial force, for storms that bent toward the one who listened.

    Yet there is a danger in deep roots. Too much tether, and the land becomes a cage. Tradition hardens into prison. Stagnation waits in the soil. And when the colonial empires came, they broke these old earth-bound peoples because they were bound too tightly to their places. So I stand between two ruins: the stillness that binds, and the detachment that consumes. I take both into me. I will not be caged by land, nor severed from it. I will work the earth, and I will wield the storm. I am root worker of the present.

    So here we are, at the meeting of ruins. Both truths scar the earth. Both paths have their price. This is my creed: I harness land without chains. I walk as one who listens and as one who strikes. I claim what others forgot, and I name it mine.

  • The Gospel of Storm and Stillness

    Violence is my liturgy and tenderness my temptation, for I take with storm and with stillness alike. There are nights when I descend like thunder, when I wrench screams and convulsions from your body until the border between agony and ecstasy collapses into nothing, until you are nothing but breath, bruise, and holy ruin beneath me. My hands pin you, my teeth consecrate you, my cock drives into you like a relentless sermon, each thrust a verse of annihilation, each release a baptism in violence.

    But there are mornings when the gospel shifts. When revelation does not come in lightning but in slow, smoldering fire. When my hands move with predatory patience, tracing circles around your fire, dragging moisture into deliberate orbit, curling fingers into tender places with cruel precision, opening you one trembling inch at a time. When I catalogue every gasp and every fracture of your breath, mapping you with ritual exactness until I know you more fully than you know yourself. When my cock sinks into you like a blade drawn slow, not to finish you but to torment, to grind, to press into depths you can neither resist nor escape.

    I want my teeth to close upon you with the hunger of a Villain who knows his prey cannot flee. I want my hands to brand you, to clutch until you writhe, until you whimper, until you unravel on the altar of my body. Every curl of my fingers, every slow thrust, every lazy sweep of my tongue is not affection—it is sacrament. It is the deliberate pacing of a god who savors his worship. I would drag you to the edge slowly, mercilessly, until your sobs confess the terror of release itself, until you tremble not only at the force of your orgasm but at the gaze of the one who sees you, wholly, utterly, without escape.

    And when that trembling overtakes you—when you fracture under the weight of the climax you once begged for—then I would turn storm again. Deep, brutal, merciless. My hand closing around your throat, my hips hammering into you with relentless cadence, each thrust transfiguring your pleasure into explosions of torment, each collision claiming you anew. I would not simply take release; I would consecrate you with it.

    This is the gospel of my villainy: to build you slowly into terror, to break you open in ecstasy, to devour you as the lazy predator who knows his prey cannot escape, and then to feast upon you one slow, deliberate taste at a time until you forget where you end and I begin.