I have a habit of sleeping on my stomach; they say it’s bad for your neck. But I can’t help thinking that one day there’ll be a demon or a monster watching me from the ceiling. He’ll fall on me, stick his hand through my chest and rip my heart out. And I’ll think, “I have no use for it anyway.”
Do you remember when Robert ripped out Helena’s heart in Frankenstein? That scene was unnerving for me. I was young–11 or something. It felt like a part of me had died or something.
I’m not ready to have my heart stolen by the beast. It was supposed to be my last resort.
Sometimes, when I feel brave, I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, through the ceiling.
If someone were sleeping next to me, I wouldn’t really care that much; I wouldn’t rack my brains over the beast’s face. The body next to me would distract me, protect 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, and I would no longer be afraid.
Just pretend he’s real.
At least, this is how I imagine it…but I doubt that I’m that kind of person in reality. As a writer, I conjure up voices, invisible beings, and then pretend that my life depends on them and if others like them as well – okay. Otherwise, I don’t see any other way to contribute to the world, not with that little power of mine. There’s a small voice in me, and its words just won’t come out of my mouth. They often go to my head and remain unspoken–that’s when they get loud.
The more alone you feel when with people, the more you have drifted away from them. I felt that way when we were in bed. I had wanted you for so long. But knowing that it was only a fleeting moment like everything else, I didn’t know what to do to make it last. So I just stayed awake that night–staring at the ceiling.
Do scars influence your sensory system?
Something in me deadened, and feelings had no access to my body or the nervous system. I was just numb. But there was a reason, of course.
There was a street called Narcissus Street. I wanted to live there. But instead, I placed my protagonist there; however, the street’s synonym 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. Genuine emotions only flow through a certain arrangement of written words, sometimes enriched by alliterations and actions.
Then there is music. E-minor touches a specific nerve in me that activates sadness, whereas G-major unfolds a page of inspiration and hope.
Scars turn you into a robot on the outside. People either think you have Asperger’s, or they think you’re a cold-blooded person.
Cold-blooded is correct. I’ve placed my protagonist in a world that she can’t 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’s no way out alive, even if you’re a successful heart surgeon in Manhattan.
I’m 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 and attempting to extract a bullet that’s lodged in the heart. There’s 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 a suitable chemical substance that corresponds with yours. You know you’re in love when you can’t control the motion of electrons in your body. And then, boom – you’re screwed.
Their chemical substance has a significant impact on you, but it doesn’t mean that they feel the same about your substance.
You no longer care.
It’s just a reaction. They all have an end.