My eyes open and I sharpen back into cognizance. The moonlight dims through the open window, casting pale shadows across my Parisian hotel room. Jean-Francois' arm is lightly clasped around me, his heavy breathing ventilating the back of my neck, the smell of cabernet sauvignon and cigarettes flowing in the wind. My Tom Ford for Gucci dress and heels are scattered across the floor in an unusual manner, as I'm usually very protective of my more outlandish purchases.
My brain shivers and I can tell the red wine is still activated inside of me, in which the realization begins to add horsepower to my overthinking Virgo as my mind begins to rev up.
These days, I'm living in a constant state of deja vu. I've already experienced this situation in my head. Back home in Los Angeles, I would set my alarm for work and take off my headphones, muting the messages I was receiving from The Secret audiobook. Pointing the portable fan towards my stack of pillows, I'd lay down in bed and close my eyes. Deep breathes in and out.
Think positive thoughts.
Visualize your desires.
His face pops up. I can smell the wine and woody eau de cologne on him as he tells me he's never met anybody like me in that inhabition-melting accent. The ripples on our palms bristle against each other as he grasps at my hands. His tousled hair with a few strands matted to his forehead by the sweat pulling from his pores. He's staring somewhere past my pupils, deep inside of me. I held on to that feeling.
"You are everything," He would say to me.
These weren't just pacifying thoughts. They were vibrating visuals. My brain would shake. I was replacing my reality with the reality that I wanted and submitting these images to the universe using my antennas, and now the frequencies have finally matched and this meeting had taken place in flesh and blood.
"I am healthy. I am wealthy. I am happy. I am with the man of my dreams," I would repeat to myself over and over again while ensnared on the highway on my way to work. The affirmations cut through the muted sounds of the mourning horns. "I am a professional painter. I am in Paris with my French boyfriend. I am happy. I am blessed," I continued.
A prototype had formed its way into my mind: tall, dark hair, brooding features, and an aquiline nose because perfection makes me anxious. The result of too many Godard binges, I'm sure.
I went from not being able to control my mind to being able to use my mind to control my future.
I shake my head and pull myself back towards my center. I trained myself to not think of the past so lucidly, good or bad. My brain operates on two planes: the present and the present-future.
Jean-Francois is still wrapped around me. His chest hairs scratching my back. his heart beating against my lats. Our warmth meets and radiates.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. My mind is blank until his facial expressions of the night flash in front of me.
Jean-Francois bent in ecstasy.
