Here is what I'm busy being fascinated with:
my skin, it's
Transparent. (Like all good skin should be, I suppose). Mom is on the phone and I'm only idly listening to her talk. My hand is palm up, wrist cupped in my other palm. Can you see what I'm talking about? My fingers curling around onto my wrist so the tips rest right near the twin
tendons running into my palm. And here's what I see - I have these tendons in my wrist, and veins, and if I move those fingertips ever so slightly I can see the
protective beautiful skin moving with its freckles and scars, moving slightly and stretching over these things inside of me. It is like a
hologram, a picture over a picture. Like when I stare at the ocean too long on an overcast day - I imagine I can see an oily sheen of shadow moving over another layer of light. Same thing;
beautiful.
In Girl, Interrupted, Susannah suddenly gets hit by panic, convinced she has no bones inside her wrist. She digs and claws away at her hand, trying to peel down to the inside layer and check for the support. I think that maybe there was just something wrong with her skin, it was not her mind at all.