experimental writing.

Exercise #1 (attention to detail).

I stand here before the mirror. It is a 3 feet wide full length mirror from ceiling to floor. I stand here to inspect the destruction I have caused. My straight black hair is a stringy tangled mass with stray wisps sticking out at wild angles. My eyes are encased in deep, dark circles, my stubby eyelashes are inefficient in keeping the dirt out. There are permanent wrinkles on my forehead stretching from my left temple to the right. My nose is proportionate to the rest of my features, but it is still imperfect. My lips, neither plump nor stick thin, are turned down at the corners and cracked from the harsh winds. My gray pull over hoodie is ripped in several places and the zipper is no longer fulfilling its purpose. My dark blue jeans are caked with mud and torn at the knees. I am not wearing socks. I stand here wondering if perhaps I should capture this moment on film. This moment of inner chaos, clearly visible on the exterior. I stand here wondering why he had abandoned me on the side of the road 7 miles from my house. I stand here trying to remember all the hateful things he had spat at me. But I cannot identify exactly what it is I am feeling at this exact moment. Self pity? Contempt? Hopeless? I shun my feelings and return to destruction.

Form #1 (subtitles).
3 AM Ice Cream.
We sit apart from one another. I am staring down into my small bowl of vanilla ice cream, spoon poised above it. At 3 A.M., the diner is still buzzing with late night caffeine addicts. I can feel Andrew's eyes roving my face, perhaps searching for some sort of recognition- that I am here with him, and that I know he is expecting an apology. But I refuse to look up at him. The tiny dark specks in my ice cream are much more appealing to me. I feel stubborn and defiant. I dream that I am somewhere else where I do not have to deal with consequences. I am always dreaming of that place. This is why Andrew is always shaking me back to reality. This is why I will always fall short of his expectations.

The First Time.
This memory will never fade into the dark recesses of my mind. It will always remain where I have kept it. I met Andrew for the first time in late December. The snow had turned to ice and covered every inch of every sidewalk. I remember how I couldn't stop the rattling in my bones. I felt the cold invading every crevice of my body. I had avoided eye contact with him for as long as possible. I was paranoid that he could hear the frantic beating of my heart, but he simply asked me if I was hungry. We sat down to dinner, across from each other, and I was forced to look at him. I was indifferent to his appearance. I dreaded the rehearsed small talk that had to take place before the real conversation would begin. I watched Andrew's facial expressions- the way his eyebrows came together when explaining the details of his work, the way his lips slid to the side of his face when he was thinking about something, the way his tone of voice changed when he became serious. To my surprise, I found myself intrigued rather than bored by this stranger.

Throwing Up.
I am in my bathroom. I prepare myself by changing into a dirty t-shirt and tying my hair back. I don't feel nauseous, just overstuffed. The not-yet digested pasta from 20 minutes ago is already beginning to weigh me down. Throwing it back up was the only way I'd be able to sleep tonight. I kneel down on the marble floor, position myself over the porcelain bowl, and plunge my right forefinger into the back of my throat making sure to hit the uvula. I feel the food begin to rise but my stomach needs another push. My eyes begin to water and I take a small breath. I withdraw my finger and in mid-gag, take another plunge. I repeat this at least four times before I feel that most of the food I ate earlier is now in the toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed. The stench fills my nostrils as I stand up and turn the faucet on. I am calm.


His words and his actions have been carved into me, I cannot deny him nor forget him. Everything I write will always somehow be related to him, if not entirely revolving around him. It will all be fiction, but it will all be truth. He is a paradox.