This quiet is enough to split my mind into a thousand tiny shards of panic, come sit with me. Tell me, if you were someone else, and I were someone else, and somehow we freed ourselves of this disaster of a life where the truth is a game and everybody plays along but no one ever wins, would you go back to being who you were as a younger version of yourself? Try to do it differently? Or would you be yourself, now, only less fraught, less distracted, less afraid of what they think of you. If no one else were around, would you touch me and know I was really here with you, trying to help you see the beauty of your eyes as they look into mine with the heave of a swollen ocean, wide open, trapped inside a dilapidated warehouse. Shattered glass windows lining the floors of your aching soul. Aren’t you tired? No, I mean, tired of it all? The days circling decayed meat like buzzards as the pale sky stretches its empty arms out for endless miles over the dull barren landscape. As for me, I find my situation hard to put into words, which is strange as I usually think of myself as being somewhat good with words. But the funny thing is the closer you get to the heart of the thing the more deftly it eludes you. To be a writer- at least the kind I seem to be, there are infinite kinds- it’s sort of like a chase. There’s a cat and there’s a mouse and you’re both. I want to capture and kill as much as I want to run like hell and then hide behind the wall. Does that make any sense at all? To you? Are there things you chase even if only in your mind? Dreams you have about once again being your own, taking what you want and spitting out the rest. The world be damned, you answer only to yourself. Place your hands in my hands, feel the pulse in my wrist. Because this is it, beautiful. There’s no way out and no way back and you and I both know we are so very, very far from home. Heartbeat to heartbeat, body to body, a tear for a tear for every kiss you shouldn’t suck slowly out of me. But as the shadows slide down over the mad sweet sweat of another blistering day, you just can’t help yourself. The soft taste of you is damaged, familiar, poetic. You see, I know the trouble with those who’ve a way with words. We chase the things that we should run from.
Allison Marie Conway 
Ahhh… reading you truly unlocks so many doors that were violently nailed shut and sealed to be eaten by the sands of time long enough to be claimed by mistress oblivion. It has a double effect for it unearth a lot of traumatic experience and hurts but at the same time it also feels like it is opening the doors that lead to catharsis and then a resurrection of the soul… You truly have a gift. I feel deeply grateful to have discovered your wondrous mind and its creation as well as your heart and soul that are so beautifully intertwined within… Thank you.
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Oh my goodness, I forgot I had written this piece. I have a weird fear of looking back over older works, I don’t know what I am afraid of, but I am so grateful you plucked this one out and showed it to me again. It is a very dear piece to me. Sort of about how we try to be hopeful, but then we try to be honest, and in me there is a struggle there I have never really reconciled. What you say about how my words affect you, it is so fragile and kind, and also strong. I am so grateful. “Resurrection of the soul”… I feel so humbled by that, I don’t deserve it. But I’ll take it, and hold it tight.
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It’s interesting. As I was sitting somewhere in the bowels of this large city I am visiting for the first time, inside of some local eatery/lounge, something reminded me of your writing. Perhaps it was a couple that sat at the table right next to me. They shared a dessert. One spoon. Lots of cream. Feeding each other in somewhat of a haste. They asked for a check before their coffees arrived. As if they couldn’t wait to get out of there to enjoy their actual main course… or perhaps they noticed me gazing at them. Either way they left an impression that in a way reminded me of your vivid and vicarious pieces that you shared. I landed on Forbidden and the evening suddenly felt surreal yet the realest in a long time. Sure, a glass or three of single malts in me contributed to my somewhat faster awakening… however, it was your writing that made tonight in many ways perfect. Thank you. Deeply.
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Oh that sounds like quite an intriguing scene indeed… you describe it all wonderfully, thank you for sharing. And I kind of adore that you linked my writing with Scotch and vicarious scenery. I will very gladly drink to that. Cheers to… what shall we say? Madness? Poetry? Pending apocalypse?
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Oh yes! I will never turn down a proper cheer to apocalypse! My Slavic soul would never forgive me if I didn’t! 😉
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Haha, well we mustn’t carry on with souls unforgiven! Cheers to the journey, the whiskey, the words, and the end of everything. 😉
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Perfect. Since we are in celebratory spirit I’ll venture into cocktail realm and go with Old Fashion… Cheers! 😉
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Cheers 🥰🥃
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Your new writing… just… fucking amazing! It deserves a time for proper response. Hence… once Budapest is another forgettable chapter of my history I will return to respond properly. One thing is for sure: so amazing to see you back!!!
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Wow, thank you so much, this makes me smile so, you are far too kind. 🙂 I wish you beautiful travels!
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Sorry. To drunk to respond. Because Slipknot…
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