Schubert’s fingertips

There were numbers with meanings, a crying friend and sounds of irregular heartbeats. Sometimes you open your eyes in bed, noticing that you’ve been holding your breath as if you were under water. I blame the neighbour underneath for listening to horrible electro beats; beats that attempt to overhaul the sound of a heartbeat. You cannot overhaul or change the sound of a heartbeat with a different rhythm and believe it’s the new trend.
I have decided that I’m no longer into electro, unless it’s done professionally by Alec, Trent, Alessandro or Ladytron.

I haven’t mediated for almost two weeks and therefore the panic attacks have returned with some funky eczema on top. Just to let you know that below that layer of skin is nothing to discover except for some dead cells that were once part of me; they used to enable the regeneration process and I was very thankful. If you think about how much of you dies every day in order to give birth to something better, you feel guilty.
There is one part of you trying its best to support these cells as an act of kindness, to return the favour, but the other part of you (, you might want to call it the unconscious which sometimes is engulfed by a certain type of compulsion) wants to kill, to flare things up to the extreme and eventually taste the blood between the teeth. Stuff like that. The core’s hot, it always is. So if you’re not tired, make the most out of it, but not in front of your parents.

My hands are nervous, which is not a good sign. I accidently pierced through my capsule with my nail and the yellow powder scattered all over my hands, although it was supposed to dissolve in my stomach.
I’ve been overwhelming my cells too much and I’m sorry. There is never ever anyone to blame for any misfortune. After all it’s you who let it happen. It’s easy to hate that person or that thing, but it’s easier to transfer that hate onto paper and thus remove it from the soul, piece by piece. It may take years, or your whole life. You can accelerate it if you want.

Everyone knows you differently, looks at you differently – nothing is more confusing than that if you think about it. What everyone has in common is: they know your name, but then again, each one pronounces it differently, exhales it differently. In the end what is in your name that makes you so unique anyway? Nothing, except that once you’ve bitten the dust the name lives on, but for no particular reason. Why not take your name with you?

I recall the first time I was in a room alone with a man. I think I was ten. He was giving me piano lessons. It was dreadful. However, I do not resent my mother for urging me to find a hobby at that time. Tennis was all right for a while, but the piano lessons equalled tearful hours of desperation. My love for the piano had vanished instantly when that man was teaching me. Here they are: an evil female paediatrician and an evil male piano teacher, the first two adults who hated my guts. The feelings were reciprocated and it feels good holding on to them up to this day. I will take their goddamn names with me.
Years later my guitar teacher had made it up to me. At least he was competent and I showed progress, but it took me over six years to realise that I was not made to play music.
Now listening to Schubert singing to a beautiful crow, I wonder what if he had been my piano teacher. Would he have written “good night” at my door? And when listening to Trent singing “something I can never have”, I wonder whether I will experience the exact same sentiment of redemption one day.

After the discovery of writing at the age of eleven I had obviously assigned myself to a therapy for life. But what is writing without the sound of music and someone’s fingertips pressing against my skin? So I put the music down in words that have no meaning to you, but me. I only have one diagnosis, but whatever you have come up with please put “literary” before the word and it will be correct. Whatever you think will be correct. Just don’t ever let me know. Because if you do, I will squash you.

I hope his fingers haven’t gone numb yet. I still want more.

Love is that which, once it has blinded you, will make you waste a lot of time.

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