Trouble every day

The first time I switched over to online blogging was in 2004. At that stage self pity, uncontrollable spontaneity were evident in the writing. Phases of not capitalising ‘I’ and not capitalising after a full stop. I remember the exact path that I used to walk on, dance on.
Online blogging is revolutionary. When looking at the entries from 2004, I noticed that I never mentioned his name once, whereas I did in my written journals from 2002-2004 – how much I hated him and how he had caused trouble every day – if not in his life than in my mind and body. In my online blog I was (and still am) self-absorbed, oblivious and probably unlikeable. I feel tempted to give you the link, but because in one entry I talk very badly about the elderly, I’d rather not let you know.
When reading the older blog, I realised that there was always something wrong – every day there was something out of order, something that needed fixing, but I just never had the appropriate tool, except music. I used to make music compilations for all sorts of moods. Let’s call them mix tapes of moods; starting with an equilibrium, setting of scene or an illustration of the feeling. Unusual but true. A piece of writing never starts without the ideal soundtrack that incites me to dance at the back of my head.
I have Tindersticks on repeat. Even before the beginning of this blog entry. I shot a music video in my head. It’s a black and white video set in Paris. There are couples kissing; some are crying but you cannot tell why. A woman smokes a cigarette whilst gazing into the abyss of The Seine. The couples are parting, still arm in arm. The woman’s hazy eyes are still observing the inconsistent city lights shimmering in The Seine. Just as the song reaches its climax, the woman bends her body over the barrier. Her feet are now in the air. She inhales one last time before letting go of her cigarette. Then her body rolls forward and she falls into The Seine. As she sinks she watches the shimmering lights from the other side.
If music isn’t another form of fiction, then I don’t know.

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