within you without you
there's this scene that always haunts me from annie hall: annie and alvy are about to sleep together, except she wants to smoke pot first but he doesn't want her to be under the influence while they're having sex. so they forge ahead without the weed, but a transparency of herself steps outside of her body and goes to sit on a chair nearby, watching the scene from a distance, slightly bored. alvy asks her if she's alright, says it seems like she's not really there with him, but she assures him that she is. that scene pretty much captures the state of things for me these days.

i've had to learn how to separate my mind and emotions (yeah, i've got a few) from my body, and it hasn't been the most pleasant experience. your body does one thing while your mind sits on the chair next to the bed, wishing it had brought a book along to pass the time. and you can't help but slightly miss the old times, when your heart and your body were one, when you had a heart, when you weren't jaded beyond belief, when you believed in love and romance and first kisses and the meaning of love songs and fluttering heartbeats and holding hands and coy glances and things unspoken but understood. but you wake up blinking one bright sticky sober morning with dry contacts and a dry mouth, and the radio's been on all night, and you ponder what it would take to bring those two things (your emotions and your body, that is) back together, and if you even want those things to be back together. you stare at the ceiling, thinking back to a time without secrets, when things happened spontaneously, when you didn't have to worry about mutual friends, or the past, or an uncertain but surely volatile future, and the judgment of your peers. but you can't think about all this right now, because after all, your body is still in that bed and you have to put a wan smile on your face.