Last semester at uni we were asked to write an interior monologue as one of our formative assessments. It was based around a person modelling for a portrait and we were to write their inner thoughts in the process. Seeing as I didn’t use it for my final piece, I thought I’d share it here with you all.
Beads of sweat are sewing my fingers to my cheeks and I’m not sure if I can un-feel this burning, as if my skin is being stretched like fabric across a tightened slit of a smile. There’s so much black in this room I can’t even tell who is here if I am here if he is here if anyone is here to paint me. Watch me watch me I feel ignited by hidden glares, in a room of running waves like dancing heat that can’t settle. Chair’s shooting daggers up my spine and the darkness so comforting – oh so comforting – it’s hugging my chest like a new-born baby hung from heavy arms I’ll soon be hung up on display. Mismatched body parts amidst the dark the worn down light from the window just poking at colours and poking at his skin this artist blended into corners. So many colourful clothes drowned in the walls did he limit my vision so that I would enter his mind – oh yes a world full of colour that he just can’t see I can’t see it either. Instead my head feels so heavy it’s as if it’s dropping off my body it’s as if it’s falling to the floor and settling beside my toes. Suddenly all these angles are wrong and I’m looking at myself but it’s not me – it can’t be me – it’s me without a head. What am I without a functioning mind? Nose inhaling so much soil from the ground where my head lies, I’m coughing up the past. All these nettles are scratching at my throat and I’m grabbing, pulling, yanking them out but they’re endless it’s all so endless why can I smell flowers like this is my summer. And I’m back to being bones against a wall; twelve year old feet lying in a dried out puddle. So much soil so much dirt so much noise so much pain. Dirt was ingrained in my veins as if it pumped fear to my heart and I can taste it why can I taste it like I’m back there I can’t be back there. Breath that isn’t mine planted seeds in my lungs and it clogged up my system and he never stayed to see it grow – why plant something you don’t even want to see grow. And I remember rubbing and rubbing and rubbing the dirt like it was real like it never meant something like it would wash off in the rain. Hands clamped to my ears I tried to mute the wailing of the sky as it all came to say goodbye I never wanted this.
I gently touch my face, shaking fingers on coal. I’m scared I might break. I’m scared I might break. What if the dirt seeps through the cracks and darkens my soul?
Hands of clay reach for me, aged by art.
They look as fearful as I feel.