Narcissus Street

I have a habit of sleeping on my stomach; they say it’s not good for your neck and back. But I cannot help thinking that one day there’ll be a demon or a monster watching me from the ceiling. He’ll fall down on me; stick his hand through my chest and rip my heart out. And I will think: “I have no use of it anyway.”
You remember when DeNiro did that to Helena in Frankenstein? After that scene a very unnerving and cold feeling had engulfed me. It felt like a part of me had died and I was only ten or eleven when I watched it.
But I’m not ready yet to have my heart stolen by the beast.
Sometimes when I feel brave, I do lie on my back, I stare at the ceiling, through the ceiling.
If there was someone sleeping next to me, I wouldn’t really care that much; I wouldn’t rack my brains over the face of the beast. The body next to me would distract me. He would run his finger down my spine; arouse an exciting traumatic chill and say: “I’ll help you face it.”
The two of us would lie on our backs, hold each other’s hands and stare at the ceiling together. I would no longer feel fear.
Just pretend he’s real.
At least this is what I think, but I doubt that I’m that kind of person in reality. As a writer I simply conjure up voices, invisible beings and then I pretend that my life depends on them and if others like them as well – fine. Otherwise I don’t see any other way to contribute to the world, not with that little power of mine. There is only a small voice evident in me and its words just don’t come out of the mouth.
The more alone you feel when with people the more you have drifted away from them – I know.  I felt that way when we were in bed. I had wanted you for so long. But knowing that it was only a transitory moment like everything else, I just didn’t know how to behave, how to feel, how to make it last. So I just stayed awake that night. Staring fearlessly at the ceiling.
Do scars have an influence on your sensory system?
Something in me deadened, and feelings had no access to my body or nervous system like I wasn’t permitting them to flow naturally. But there was a reason of course.

There was this street called Narcissus Street. I wanted to live there. But instead I placed my protagonist there; the synonym of the street, however, is Fifth Avenue.
She made me realise that my feelings are only evident in my writing and not in interactions with people. It’s because, on the emotional front, I decided to add a big chunk of myself to her.
People have been calling her crazy, obsessed, weird, and fucked up.
Well, thank you very much.
I can’t help it. I believe that true emotions only flow through a certain arrangement of written words, sometimes enriched by alliterations.
Then there is music. E-minor touches a certain nerve in me that activates sadness whereas G-major unfolds a page of inspirations and hope.
Scars turn you into a robot on the outside. People either think you have Aperger’s or they think you’re a cold-blooded person.
And cold-blooded is correct. I have placed my protagonist in a world that she cannot comprehend; I have fuelled her with determination, hope and obsession that correspond with her creative acts – the only way to remain sane. She doesn’t know that I’ve put her in a maze where there is no way to get out of alive, even if you’re a successful surgeon living in Manhattan.
I am not successful in any way. And I’m too disoriented to even look for a way out of the maze.
I only pretend that I can open up a thorax. I lie to you about dissecting a pig’s heart, about attempting to extract a bullet that’s lodged in the heart, blood splashing onto my gown and mouth mask. I failed.  The smell of blood is strong and rusty once it has gone dry. On your tongue it tastes salty like sweat.
I think when staring at his reflection, Narcissus wished he could have devoured himself.

Maybe love is merely a chemical reaction and you have to find the right person who carries the suitable chemical substance that corresponds with yours. You know you’re in love when you cannot control the motion of electrons in your body. And then, boom – you’re screwed.
Their chemical substance has a huge impact on you, but it doesn’t mean that they feel the same about your substance.

But you no longer care. It’s just a reaction.

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