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YES. This is my own writing. I wrote it for a college class (Woman's Studies). I got a 3.9 and to top it off this was my midterm. The topic of the easy was "As a woman, how would you describe yourself in respect to the view of modern and traditional cultures" or something like that. Yes. Its my writing. Yes its true. DON'T steal it. DON'T claim it as your own. Want someone to read it, link them to this page.

***** The Eyes in the Mirror *****

The foreign eyes of an unrecognized woman look into mine through the dimly lit bathroom mirror reflecting a face that is strange to me as if I've never glanced upon its like before. This face belongs to a woman who is fat, ugly, and in no uncertain terms: unlovable and undesirable. This woman who stares me in the eyes bears with her tremindice sadness and anger, her heart broken into so many pieces that not the gravitational pull of a black hole could drag the shattered fragments of them back to one piece again. This woman-beast has been cast our, rejected and pursued as a monster of primeval unnatural realms were feared by medieval man.

Far too many times has she become the beast of burden for the fury of others to vent upon her body, mind, and spirit. She quakes and jumps in fear at the touch of man. She longs to speak to the males of the species and yet the trembling in her heart and the knots that bind her tongue forbid her from doing so.

What great tragedy it would be if, in urchin Oliver's style, she begs for the attention and approval of greater beings than she. In religious reverence she sits in witness to the grace, beauty, and relaxivity of the more well-cast people than herself. Time and time again she reaches out to grasp the touch of others with fingers fair as an angels hair, which snaps and breaks at the slightest hint of turbulent wind.

She wraps herself up in her shell of fear and anxit closing up tight as a clam and thus locking out he possibility of harm to herself but also presenting to those who may serve to offer a hand in well meant friendship nothing but a cold hard plating which can neither feel or respond to the ventures of others. When confronted with the possibility of an external threat to her intentionally erected walls of security she calls her archers to attention and bolts the door to her castle keep mind. The hackles of her mongrel heart spike to attention upon her back of alarm. Her teeth show as barbarous fangs ready for the throat of any who threaten the security gate of her lock-safe soul.

She sees her self as worthless to the extent that her in totaled comprised value can be calculated in the amount of what ever offer will be made, and yet she expects her self to be seen as unworthy of such appeal or any interested bidders and thus she expects to wander away rejected once again. In years past, she has been called forth to revile to others her view of her own self value in the monetary terms of foreign pastoral peoples who’s value placed upon women can be counted in terms of cattle. She sees herself as so devalued that cattle must be given in dowry in hopes that some one will take pity on her and allow her to cower in their presence in the most subservient manor that she can present herself in.

This woman is a casualty of the masochistic war upon her mind, body, spirit, and soul. She is on who is to weak to bear the weight of such a burden and snaps as a twig in a hurricanes gale force winds assault on a tropical island. She lies her pathetic head and broken, bent, scared form upon a pillow of stone on a bed of nails to rest off the weary trappings of the day. The shuddering fears that compose her own lack-luster view of herself is only calmed by the complete silence of her own solitude that occasionally leads her to some symbolic of inner peace. She derives no happiness from her own existence and only a trifling of pleasure from that which she witnesses as a casual observer of life’s passing around her down cast eyes.

This woman I see before me, who’s vision makes me too disgusted to look upon her, bears cold, dead eyes who have long since given up the ghost of any will they might have once possessed. The eyes that stare back into mine in their granite hard, graphite dull way look to be vaguely familiar.

The porcupine p***k of needles clinging into the flesh realization of recognition leaves my soul pulsating in abhorrence. This duality of images born of glass and conscious thought renders me with out words to describe the tsunami of tidal wave emotions which wash over me as the euphony comes to sweep over me. The realization which reaches out and Ali punches me in the face leaves me pain bolted to the floor, unable to back away by force of will alone. This barely viewable visage of female disordered stylings and wretched consciousness is in fact, to the horror of myself, the viewer, nothing more than the reflection of my own true self. I am that woman before me. The eyes of the dull, lifeless internalized example of womanhoodly existence are in stark reality none other than my own.

I crawl away to cower in the closet as my own Mariana trench deep horror memories fill my world with their stifling reawakening. I close my eyes and attempt to comprehend that which embodies my existence and its lack of contentedness and comfort even in the arms of another when sanctuary is sought. I am that which I have become, a ghost of a woman that has given up the potential for her own existence long ago in an attempt to provide sanctuary for my own life in hopes of mere survival even at the sacrifice of my own externally found satisfactions. I am that which I have been shaped, molded like clay on a potters wheel of life: a will less, internalized, battered, and bruised husk of a female form.

Such is the life of the woman, that stares back at me. That woman in the mirror who’s eyes haunt my mind are foreign and yet they are my own. Two green moons of fading hope lost in a sea of raven dark hair. Darkness sweeps over her reflection as I turn off the light and step away from this visage that will haunt my dreams tonight in yet another fruitless night of attempted yet failed sleep.