The following is in response to Allison Field Bell’s essay “Flesh Wound” that I read via Our Stories, an online literary journal.
Bell’s detail of her puke green house and everything that goes with it was phenomenal. Her smart yet boneheaded lover reminds her that she doesn’t know what she wants—not what she wants at the moment, that’s easy, but what she wants for her life.
“I know you do. That’s the point. You’re so wrapped up in this self-hating head space that you don’t know how to get what you want because….” He pauses, putting on his irrevocably profound voice. “Because you don’t even know what you want. And even if you did, you wouldn’t admit it.”
What I take from this is that idea; I ask myself if there is a moment that I significantly wondered the same thing, where I was, and who I was with. I guess part of realizing this means that you have to think about it, to cut away at what is holding you back like the pumpkin in Bell’s essay that she and Jesse ruthlessly massacred with Jesse’s knives in her yard.