Old Writings from a New Girl

I was digging through some of my old playwriting materials, and I found this stream-of-conscience assignment that I had to do for a class. It is always interesting to look back on our old selves to see how far we've come or haven't. Either way I got a kick out of how intense, for lack of a better word, it was. That aspect of me certainly hasn't changed. Anyway, enjoy...or worry.

Well, what do you think? Here I am all dolled up and nowhere to go. The story of my life. Well mirror, when are you going to talk back? Stupid piece of glass. That Queen got her's to work, didn't she? Or was it that she was schizophrenic and heard herself talking to herself? I think that may be your problem. Are you talking to me? Wait a minute. Ha! Ha! Just kidding. All I'm doing is looking in the mirror, and all I see is Munch, de Kooning, Pollack, Dali, Margritte, Bosch. Hawthorne is distrubing too, but I only see a little of him. I have dreams; ones that haunt. Every night the same dream; the same dream as the old man. I travel; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride. I search, but there is no treasure. The guard tells me to search in my own house under my stove. I do. There is still nothing there. Then the fog rolls in, a bellow drones across the sea, and I see Max riding in his ship. I'm never sure if he is going or coming; if he has played with the Wild Things or is just about to face his fears. I never know. All I see is him sitting on the sea being rocked by that fog that is all-consuming. I cry for Max and the old man sometimes. Mirror, I wake and my pillow is damp with salt. Sometimes, I'll lick my cheek and taste the bitterness of the last night. Why is it that I don't have happy dreams? Why is it mirror, that when I look into you, stare into those eyes that stare back, I drown? The movie set swims and I fall into an abyss that ends up being the eternity of space. I blink; the set focuses and mascara is running down my face. Mirror, what do you think? Do I look okay?