The inventor I never was

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

A poem was written for me too. Why would I deserve that?

Perhaps this is the reason why I wish life were a music video. There’s a story in almost each music video. People in the video act out a story that relates to the song that you 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 want control and a comforting hug and pretend that everything is ok.

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

I wish there were 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 dig into my back, making me feel pain in my dreams. Many tell me that only men sleep on their stomachs, whereas women sleep on their 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 will fall from the ceiling.

I know 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 and irritates me. I keep 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 write up the dialogue. Then I’ll make him say what I want to hear. I’ll make it sound like in ‘Hills like white elephants’ – show, don’t tell is the sweetest technique. I wish all people would rephrase their self-pity by using some metaphor or start a fight in the style of Bukowski. Many people don’t realise that they are standing alone, and I admire those; I envy those. If I were like them, I wouldn’t need to write. Maybe I could be a banker or a social worker. Maybe I want to be around more people, get bored and call everyone.

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 develop potions that make you grow taller. I wanted to design 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 STILL have no 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 silhouette, reminding you of who you are. Control is all, despite any dark forebodings looming over you. This doesn’t concern anyone but you.
Sure I always wanted to reinvent myself. 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 their fingers. Who you are is beyond your control. Biology makes you. Psychology makes you. I’m 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 were 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 for forcing me to accept how 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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