Writing for 20 minutes was not as hard as I thought. I actually wished I could have had more time to write. I think that it is a great exercise, something I hope to make a habit in time when I don’t feel like writing or am stuck or need help coming up with an idea. This is my 20 minute uninterrupted free write:
I just lay there looking up. Not really zoning out or really looking for anything just taking in the ceiling. Letting the nerves in my eye take in and process a message, send a signal to my brain, my brain decipher the image, sending the image back and saying that that is a ceiling. And next to me is a boy. Some guy that I don’t really even know. I mean I know his name, is a friend of sorts but I don’t really know him. I don’t know what makes him tick, I don’t know what his favorite food is or his most memorable childhood memory or what his mother’s name is, what she’s like and yet I slept with him. I was intimate with him. His body and my body were one at one point and yet it didn’t feel that way 20 minutes later when he was finished, when I faked that I was finished. In actuality it didn’t feel that way for the entire thing. I wasn’t even there at all. I knew the moment that my brain just shut off and my body did its thing while I just watched, inside myself. Like it was a movie. Like it was something that I wasn’t really doing, someone else was. They were the ones that were kissing him, making animal noises, touching, stroking, caressing as if he were her lover. But he wasn’t. I didn’t even love him, I don’t even think I liked liked him or cared for him in that fashion for two people to be rightly so intimate with each other, to be so vulnerable and yet I didn’t feel vulnerable in my cocoon, in my shell, me just sitting inside myself and watching. I was putting on a performance while myself was watching and would generate any warning or give hints to do something else, you know when you shout at the TV characters or actresses in a movie, telling them to do one thing but they go ahead and do another. But my body and mind weren’t one, they were on opposite sides of the playing field. When it was over, after he was well off to sleep thinking that he delivered and Oscar performance, inside me was clapping at the real star of the show. Once it was safe to come out, body and mind rejoined and now we are looking up at the same ceiling thinking when the right time to leave was. Should we stay? Was it right to stay? Would there have to be a repeat performance? Would it be better once the influence of alcohol was gone and sober choices were being made, more conscious of what are actions were going to be? Would we be able to fake it out of this one? It was still pretty late in the night and there was enough space for me to curl up on my own side, cover my body even though moment before I have bold and brazen enough not to care what he saw or if he liked it or not. I was all of a sudden wanting to cover myself from head to toe, all the sexy and beautiful feelings gone, the drive of desire that he had for me no longer motivated me to want to uncover myself like those sexy lingerie models. I wanted to be wrapped in the warmth of my own clothes and forget that I am a girl. To forget that men at times only saw the outside and whether they liked me or not depended on how much my clothing revealed or if the clothes I chose were flattering to my form. If I looked like I was a potential mate when to me, none of them seemed to carry what I found desirable in a mate, but that could take forever. Mr. Right, prince charming are probably looping around in circles lost and not asking for directions. They have left me like a stared cat out in the world of dogs, looking for a scrap of something to eat or some form of love that for a moment will make me feel like im not homeless or unloved, undesirable to people who want more than a performance that I put on for those meager scraps. I don’t know if I enjoy it, I don’t know if I’m disgusted by myself or them but I know that I feel so much better after scrubbing off the grim of work that I had to put in to get those scraps and to curl into a pair of sweats and t-shirt and watch old movies that no one else watches and eat pickles and chips and dip and look like me. That doesn’t, though, erase the recording of last night’s performance, as if little me has a DVR recording to remind me that even actresses sometimes have to call it quits. Sometimes it’s better to go and retire to the island for misfit me.