Even though I write, I hold back. Even when I push people away, I don’t want to be left alone. Even when I say I’m done, I can’t help thinking of him until he finds me in dreams and takes me high above the sadness which cloaks me in every kind of weather. And even though I have feelings that don’t seem to fit anywhere in this world, I still go on searching which means there must be something in me that still believes there is a reason for all this madness. Writers. Seekers. Addicts. Cowards. An intoxicated man passes out at the wheel, killing himself and a young family in a fiery car accident on an avenue no one’s ever heard of. He didn’t feel a thing. Did they? Or was it too sudden to react or feel anything at all? Was this always going to be the way it ended or did fate take an awful turn just because some fool made a series of poor decisions? Even though I worship at the altar of the word I harbor thick fears about the things I want to say. The pressure they imposed upon me to be good, to obey, to please, to achieve. Be polite. Be sweet. Say you are happy when you are suffocating. Smile when you are afraid. Say yes when you mean you don’t know. Say yes when you mean I don’t want to but I’m terrified of hurting you so I let you hurt me. How we mess up as parents. How we mess up as kids in a world which tried its best to keep us safe from monsters when all the while it was raising them good and proper deep inside of us. Pawns. Knee socks. Choirs. Confessionals. Long after dark in a small church whose west wall is crumbling from neglect and lack of funding, a young girl stands before a newly ordained minister. In the flickering light of candle glow, through a thin veil of incense burning near her bare shoulders, the girl removes her top as the minister looks on, mouth dry, heart pounding. It is late and the church pews are empty, the holy atmosphere aches full of forbidden acts of temptation. Perversion. Serpents. Sin. As though possessed, his mouth moves down to taste her breast as she closes her eyes and sighs for forgiveness, for a way through the darkness into the light. Flesh and blood and skin on fire. He touches her where she is weak. Savior. Sacrifice. Wine as drink as body as feast. What they never tell you is that to access your divinity you have to fall on your knees for your broken humanity. To touch the golden garments of saints you must be defiled at the hands of the wicked. That the more they deny you the more you will crave. I met a writer once, a beautiful writer of ethereal skill, who told me that to get at what he really wants to say, he has to write about something else entirely. You have to write fiction to get at the truth. You need to circle and circle the prey. Stalkers. Con artists. Thieves.
Allison Marie Conway 
Wow. Impossible to respond to this deeply impactful prose without taking a risk to fall into the category of the con artists, thieves, stalkers… Yet, it deserves a response beyond clicking on the star below it. These words struck home, perhaps too close to the deepest of dungeons with home. It opens up a plethora of wounds while at the same time inspires to power through the cuts and bruises. I guess it resurrects the fighter within. Fighter that comes with many names and labels… desire, madness, hunger, hope… to liberate self from “I don’t want to but I’m terrified of hurting you so I let you hurt me.” and breathe again.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for being so vulnerable with this vulnerable piece. I think that is brave and so very fiercely kind, and I’m so grateful it moved you through wounds into power. Maybe the world would be less cruel a place if we could all admit that we belong to all the categories…. Thank you for your honest witness. ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
Your boldness is awe-inspiring! It makes me want to pick up the pen again. Thank you for your commitment to the art and for continuing to bring light to darkened corners.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ilyas! 🙂 My sweet friend. I always love hearing from you.., I’m so grateful this piece inspired you. And I do so hope you pick up the pen again and go boldly forth… it is calling for you. ❤
LikeLike
Been trying to put my finger on it, Allison. What is it, exactly, that makes my eye brow raise and intrigues me about your writing?
It’s like tasting a wine and trying to detect the hints of this and notes of that as it plays over your tongue. Overanalyzing takes the fun out of tasting. So without trying to overdo it, from my limited palette: Your words flow like stream-of-consciousness. The topics at first don’t seem to be related, but the main theme seems to twist around like a double helix through your piece. And then there are sentences that I could pause and just stare at, lost in thought at what it has provoked in me.
Or, in short form: I like what I’m tasting, even though I may not be able to detect everything in it. Hahaha.
Glad our paths crossed. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh to raise an eyebrow, I’m over the moon for this! I am so delighted with your comment, Tom, I read it multiple times. Thank you for spending time, for sharing your kind and generous thoughts with me. What could be more beautiful than having writing compared to a wine tasting? Nothing. Nothing could be. 🙂
And that you reference the double helix twisting through, I will be holding on to that for some time. Thank you for seeing that. It is quite exactly what I strive to do with words whenever I can, to sort of corkscrew right through the chaos and claw it all back to center. Ah, corkscrew…there is another wine reference, haha. So glad our paths crossed, too. I do hope the sentences you stare at offer you some inspiration along your way, whatever their notes may be. ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person