I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Friday, 14 February 2014

CONSTANCE (a.k.a. A Hopeless Man and the Woman Inside His Head - A Love Story?)

            My ideal woman is flashing through identities. Almost every day she's changing, supplementing character traits adapted from real, flesh and blood women. Needless to say she doesn't appreciate it.
            Whenever I revisit her she tends to walk off. She can feel the initial signs of my altering her, she has said as much, and turns away which I suppose just neatens the transformation. One minute she has short blonde hair covered by a woolly hat and the next she's brunette with glasses and puffy cheeks. She has a personality, a resounding one through all the adjustments, though it doesn't seem to want to acknowledge my existence. I'm kind of into bossy women right now so I'm okay with this.
            I think the weight bothers her most. Being a man, I do make it fluctuate. I'm generally realistic when it comes to body shape but I do have moments of weakness where only a buxom figure will do. I sometimes wonder if an invisible corset just suddenly pulls tight around her waist. Of course I don't ask her such questions especially when I just want a woman who doesn't always have answers for everything.
            I see the way she looks at her reflection sometimes, admiring the pigmentation of her skin. She's so used to white that tan is refreshing and black is better. I see how she is constantly restyling her hair from time to time, she seems to always rise to the challenge.
            Sometimes she talks to me but never about us, always about what books and films are currently out and whether or not I can brush up on my philosophy and politics a bit more. I'm trying, I am honestly trying. As soon as I find anything new out, it goes straight to her. It's only fair and, besides, I get the distinct feeling she's properly digested it before even I have.
            I once asked her if she was technically my anima, we're talking Jungian archetypes here of course, and she told me to move focus away from pop psychology for a while. Sorry, I meant she encouraged me. I'm just not used to so many words coming out of her mouth all at once.
            Okay, I'll admit it: sometimes I don't really feel like talking to her either. I'd sooner skip to the sex but the entire experience would suddenly feel ethereal and I don't really fancy thrusting at intangibility. I try to be tactful, romantic even but she's just not having it either way. I suppose she knows all of my signature moves by now. Do I have signature moves? I'm seducing a figment here.
            Right now she's a six-foot tall red head in a leather jacket so I'm watching what I say. I'm trying to bring out a patient nature in her but, every time that I do, she starts to resemble my mother. She's resisting me. At what point does an epitome become a prisoner? Was it ever really a lover in between?
            I'm slowly coming to the realisation that I should probably let her out somehow. But then she'd come out as me, with my face and that's another personality that I can't handle. Or maybe she'll just seep out of my ear as a bit of blood or brain matter. I could always cull her. No. No, I haven't even broached the subject with her yet.
            Are you comfortable, Constance? I say. I call her Constance because it seems like a good sturdy temporary name. I can't remember if I've actually called her it before now. Are you content, Constance?
           And I can see her now, smoothing down the creases in her light green tank top, low-cut but I'm just about keeping at the level of her eyes. She's got black hair now, punk style and surprisingly high-maintenance. There's no loose locks, nothing for me to brush away. She tries to say something but all I can hear is breathing. None of her stock phrases apply to this situation. I can't find the words for her to say.

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