The morose blog

Sorry. I’ve just taken Lican to the airport. 

I’ve come back to an empty house. It’s beautiful here. And my bed is a mess and smells of Lican. So I should be feeling cheerful. 

But separating from Lican reminds me of the loss of my love. That hit me hard. I thought it was going to hurt, but it hurts worse than that. 

So I’m wandering round dressed in black like bloody Hamlet. I wouldn’t be writing this about myself, since drivelling on about being unhappy isn’t something I like to do. But I’m too scattered to write anything else at the moment. 

Better to have loved and lost

People say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I guess it’s true. 

And I know that it’s an honour that Lican should think I’m the person who should teach her new dom how to manage and guide her.

But there’s loss, too. It means Lican will never again fly a thousand miles to see the local sights, I suppose, but mainly to get her ass smacked and fucked. I know that Lican and I were never a real possibility. We live far too far apart. My Spanish and her English were never good enough to let us truly relax together, except when we were doing sex.

Still and all and all, I can be philosophical about it, but it’s loss. I seem to have lost a lot, just a bit too much, lately. That’s probably about enough self-pity, for today. And the thing from yesterday, about the excellence of sex and love: that’s still true.