The inventor I never was and always will be

So far, there have been two songs written about/for me. I feel very, very honoured, even though I cannot understand why those wonderful men did it. I had a mad crush on them both, but the customary result is, whenever Paula has a crush, she either gets rejected or she keeps the secret forever to herself. In this case, both of them know how I felt and I do not deny that I still find them alluring. What I find alluring is something I can never have.

Perhaps this is the reason why I wish life was a music video. There is a story evident in almost each music video. There are people who act and there is a song in the background which the people in the video don’t usually hear. It’s similar to a “Stummfilm” à la Chaplin. Music and singing voices are so much more beautiful than spoken language. The drums are your heartbeat, the guitar your flow of emotions, the bass your mind, the singing voice your breath.

In the end we all just want control and a comforting hug and pretend that everything is ok.

There are two stories on my desk – Angela Carter and Chekhov, both called ‘The Kiss’. For some reason I don’t want to read them. I haven’t been able to concentrate on books for days. Today my attention span is like that of a little child’s. I’m obtuse like a piece of wood. Kiss that piece of wood and bring it back to life.

I wish there was someone to keep my back warm. There’s something wrong with my duvet. There’s something wrong with that white face on the pin wall. The coil springs digging into my back makes me feel pain in my dreams. Many tell me that only men sleep on their stomachs whereas women sleep on the sides. I don’t breathe well on the side and if I sleep on my back, I get scared that every time I open my eyes a creature is going to fall from the ceiling.

I don’t like me and my cowardice. Despite knowing that life is short, I’m always impatient and under pressure most of the time. I don’t understand this impatience, though, as it doesn’t make the slightest sense. Love makes me impatient, but at the same time, it scares the hell out of me, not to mention, irritates me. I’m keeping it to myself, even though the curiosity feels like an itch in the heart chamber.

I wish I could change this into a story and invent the dialogue myself. Then I’ll make him say what I want to hear. I’ll make it sound like in ‘Hills like white elephants’ – indirect is always best and sweetest. I wish all people would rephrase their self-pity by using some metaphor or start a fight à la Bukowski style.  There are many people who do not realise that they are standing on their own and I admire those, I envy those. If I were like them, I wouldn’t need the writing. Maybe I could be a banker or a social worker. Maybe I would like people more.
Nowadays when people ask me what I wanted to be when I was small, I answer “I wanted to become an inventor.” And usually they smile and say “But you are.”
They have no clue. I wanted to invent mirrors that make you look pretty. I wanted to invent potions that make you grow taller. I wanted to invent contact lenses that make my eyes blue or green (someone stole my idea, but after reading ‘The bluest eye’, I changed my mind). And I wanted to build a copy of Wells’ time machine so I could travel to the mid seventies and fall in love with John Lydon.
And they say “But you still are an inventor.”
They have no FUCKING clue. Wishful thinking has nothing to do with invention. It’s playing hide and seek with illusion and reality. And if you can’t distinguish the two, you are fucked. Here is a hint: The prettier one is illusion. Sometimes your wishful thinking reflects your worst intentions, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just a waving figure in silhouette reminding you of who you are. Control is all, despite any dark forebodings looming over you. This doesn’t concern anyone, except you.

Sure I always wanted to re-invent myself the way I wanted to be. I don’t really want to talk about free will and existentialism, though. But do you really think you can be who you want to be? Healthy people don’t change after snapping with their fingers. Who you are is beyond your control. Biology makes you. Psychology makes you. I am not addressing in/determinism, either, I’m just saying: don’t change, don’t change for anyone, because it’s not going to work, no matter how much you love that person. If they don’t like the way you are, there’ll be someone else out there who’ll love you more than anything.

I admit it now.

They are right.

I’ve been reinventing myself on paper all my life. I’ve been redesigning my life on paper for about 15 years. I’ve been denouncing the real world’s process for forcing me to accept the way it works, as if I had no choice. And no, I have no choice.

The alternative world can only be found on a blank page over which I rule.

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