Nina Brav

Writer, Blogger, Entrepreneur

Stream of Conciousness

Sometimes when I'm driving alone, I get sad. One minute I'll be fine but the next thing I know my mind starts to move at 100 miles a minute and my solemn thoughts suck me into my own messed up head. I imagine myself getting pulled over. I'm in Northern Florida and perhaps some quota searching cop turns on his siren. He's white, and southern, and racist and he mistakes me for Hispanic and thinks he can harass me. He starts the harassment. I imagine myself informing this man that I am, in fact, a well educated, half caucasian individual. I'd say that if something were to happen to me, I have no bad past. There would be no way to say that I somehow agitated the attack or somehow deserved whatever fate this imaginary me might be led down. I would say my white daddy and my white granddaddy would not rest until they saw this cop punished within the full force of the law -- the law, I'd remind, that he gave his commitment to uphold.

I don't think too much about the ending. I let the result of my words drift away from thoughts. But these words in my stomach that came bubbling up serve as a simple reminder of fears lurking beneath the surface.

In my next vision I imagine me at my future job. It's the evening and I am relaxing alone in my big, comfy hotel room after a long day. Then my guy friend appears. We are watching a movie and laughing about the day. I imagine my head on his shoulder -- not in a romantic sense, just a motion of comfort. This is someone that I can trust. Then my imagination self imagines what my boyfriend would be doing in that moment. He, on the other side of the country. Would he be missing me? Would he be worried?

A music change shifts my thoughts. An upbeat spanish pop song plays and instantly my heart aches. It spurs a memory of when I told my boyfriend that we shouldn't dance together, that he doesn't make me feel sexy. How he mistakenly thought I lured other men while I danced with him.  A huge pit in my stomach, perhaps from fear.

Flashback - When I sat with that same boyfriend's letter in hand and cried so many tears after he broke my heart. The letter said that he wanted my back but I was confused. I had given up on the notion that he would want me again and my heart was jerking inside of me. I sit on the floor and I read the letter over and over. The real me isnt even sure if this memory is real or not. It doesn't really matter - it still says what I felt. In my vision, I crush the letter in my hands as I weep. This is the biggest release I've had since the break up. Should I take him back? Does he deserve me? Do I deserve him?

My mind spins 360 and 4 years back to when I was mean to him, my first love. I yelled. I never used to yell but that night I did on the phone. "I can't always be waiting around for you," I yelled. During the silence I could almost see how his head fell in defeat from my words. When he did that I always knew that he'd been broken. The next scene was me at his house. We sit on this first love's porch and I kiss his face. Hot tears stream down my cheeks. "I'm sorry," I told him between kisses, "I will always wait for you. I'm sorry... I always will."

It is the music, Ranchero. It makes me lonely. That's its purpose you know, to make lonely people feel the emptiness around them. The man in Spanish cries for his lost love. Was it his fault she left or hers? It doesn't matter. She does not love him anymore. He is crying and I am crying.

Not actually. This is all still in my head. But my head and the huge pit in my stomach know what I do not care to admit: that I am a lonely little girl, driving, lost and afraid. I may keep looking towards my future but I'm still living in the past.