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I make it sound like it has only happened a couple of times. Once or twice, really. But that is not the truth.

I have out of body experiences all the time! Haha! You caught me there. Alright, not all the time. Just sometimes.

My being and my body ride separately to work. Well, ride separately almost everywhere we go.
One is riding and singing.
                           Singing all sorts of songs.
                                       All sorts of hideous songs. (Sometimes) 
And talking loudly to self.
        Talking loudly to self in hideously accented French.
        Talking loudly to self in any combination of too-thick-to-be-true accents and applauding myself generously for my linguistic versatility.

And cussing at the receding backs of the bad motorists.

It is at times like this that I feel like someone lifts me out of my skin and leaves me to contemplate the rider from within the stuffy confines of the helmet. With the visor down, there's very little scope for the two of us to breathe together and usually, the prissy observer wins and the loudmouth is silenced.

Alors, the need for coffee and introduction of Self to Self is getting very dire.

Untitled

It hasn't even been a few minutes since I looked into the mirror and didn't recognise myself.

I haven't cut my hair in months. I haven't got a tattoo on my face. I haven't picked out a nose from a catalogue nor have I been picking out allergens of choice to make my lips puffy.

I haven't changed my vital statistics. I have not been binging nor have I been dieting myself into a mould.

I just didn't recognise myself.

The mirror is still staring at me. With each contemplation of the strands of my hair and the conglomeration of features that make up my face, I could not find the thread of connection that made the image in the mirror (I need not say 'reflection' for obvious reasons) me.

I realised there was no reason for Me to belong to this body.

The eyes could have been any other colour and I would still be looking out of them.
So why is it that Me has dispossessed this body that seems to be carrying it around? The only reason I surmise that Me is still seated within the tall, loosely attired body is that there is no one looking over my shoulder and I still find the questions coming.
The image in the mirror and the poser of the questions have to be linked somehow.

I need to take them out to coffee and introduce them.

Fingerlengths of Love

A moment arrived after all that furious note taking where I looked at the lengths of my fingers and found love. 

Summer's been around long enough to leave its tanned message on their slender lengths. 

The smudges of ink that led my eyes to the tips of each digit made me want to write some thrilling magnum opus that would take a small, exclusive literary world by storm. I wanted them to make a masterpiece of worded chiarosucro that would twist thinking men and women into tangles of smouldering feeling that smelts emotion and light into an impossible skyrocket.

I wanted to have them dressed in rags of paint. I wanted to peel off the remnants of oil paint and have my long, lithe fingers leave a smudge on my forehead. 

It seemed only apt that they be stained with the ink from feverishly composing a tempestuous concerto; flying between the ebony and ivory and soon to be priceless sheaves of paper in the passion of creating a masterpiece. I wanted them twisting in the impertinence of creating something rebellious, a renegade in the midst of mediocre chaos. 

I felt a needle and thread would give form to a sublime tapestry, a camera would yield movement caught as it is exorcised from a body in the throes of motion. 

My fingers were asking to be loved. 

Waiting like coy temptresses for me to toy with a lock of my hair on stage or to still an arm of someone caught up in the fire of playing a part. 

They stretched waiting for me to call on them. 

They examined each others' lengths and confirmed that I loved them.

In french fried fingerlengths I found love.