He offers me water but I can’t get drunk on that so I ask for whiskey and he pours me wine. It will do and I will drink it but it isn’t what I wanted. Isn’t what I asked for, isn’t the way I hoped this would go.
Sometimes you need someone who will protect you from yourself which can be as much fun as dating a padded cell, but still. It can be good. Life-saving, even. Still…
To be a hazard just by living in your own skin is a kind of cosmic joke which takes too long to get old, if we are being honest. In all the years I have racked up I wonder how many more it will take before I understand it all. Does anyone ever understand it all? I cannot imagine so.
Still. I cannot help, it seems, but to try. I peel things from books, I pry open, I research, turn over stone over stone over stone, looking. Seeking. Sometimes I do get lucky. Sometimes I am frightened of myself. Not of my weaknesses, there are plenty and they are plenty sordid, trust me, but of the power one can sometimes summon with words.
There is power and there are benevolent ways to use it. There are cruel ways. There was that Midas guy, right, with the golden touch. It is not nice to hurt someone just because you can. It is not nice to impose. It is not nice to kill. Or to be-friend. Or to leave. Or to stay. Or to lie. Or to tell the tough truth. Be too big or too small or smart or stupid or silly or dumb or sexy or slutty or strong or clever. To take what you want or to leave it. You see what I mean? You cannot win, you can only lose. You can only ever, ultimately, fall short.
You cannot get any of this right. It is too complicated of a thing, this life and the ways you are supposed to live it. While he is messing around on his phone I pour the goddamn whiskey and light up a cigarette. I walk past the patio, lay down in the sweet grass and wait for the darkness, the purple sky, and the dead stars to show me the way, any way at all, to go home.
Allison Marie Conway 
I read whiskey and I was on board. Sure, it ended up being a glass of wine, however, by then in my mind I was holding a glass of single malt from the mill on the hill that lies close to the edge of river Livet in Scotland. Ah, the arrogance that a simple mental image of a glass of whiskey in my hand evoked was quite epic. Slowly though it was washed away as I read each word of yours. Do we really know anything? Drenched in cold sweat I suddenly felt weak and meaningless as existential crisis started to take over. Yet, it didn’t fully prevail. With each new word of yours a sort of a clarity descended upon my mind and just like that existential crisis was blown away. We are curious creatures. We desire to know. We desire to understand. We desire to witness. We desire to be witnessed. Perhaps it’s so because to the universe we are nothing but a little speck of dust, however, to each other we are a lot of times more than the whole universe. As you poured yourself a glass of goddamn whiskey I did the same and for a brief moment the world seemed sane. ♥️
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Thank you so much, Danijel, for taking the time to read and leave this gorgeous comment. You make me smile. I loved reading this piece through your eyes, your mind, feeling it through your feels. Such a gift and I am so grateful. Cheers, sweet friend. We don’t know shit, but we know all we need to right now. Maybe the whiskey and the dead stars, maybe they can relate. And the beautiful river you mention, I bet it knows our tragic hearts, too… x ♥️
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The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. Not only did I get to turn the world off for a few blissful and meaningful moments, I also got a perfect excuse to enjoy a good goddamn whiskey. We really know nothing most of the time and then suddenly for a brief mesmerizing moments we get it! I say embrace both the knowing and the not knowing. It certainly makes life marvelous (even when painful). As for the river we speak about – on my bucket list! 😉😊❤️
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Mmm Scotland would be an absolute dream… ♥️🌹🕊
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Agreed… 😊❤️
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🥰
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Yes. My God, yes. Of all that is offered, much more is demanded. Violently insisted upon. The willful others always ready to react, to reject. To condemn. Those predefined paths become pointless. No winning. Only losing, when you will always disappoint. So fuck their paths and look beyond, choosing your own. No, not choosing. Making. Even as they claw at you. Making your own path. Making yourself. Beautiful, Anam charaid.
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As ever, my dearest George, you capture it perfectly in your summary. “Even as they claw at you….” yes, yes. One is digging her way out even as the sand is pouring in all the while. Thank you for your inexhaustible understanding and willingness to see the beauty, I am so very truly grateful.
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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