Schubert’s fingertips

There were numbers with meanings, a crying friend and sounds of irregular heartbeats. Sometimes you open your eyes in bed and notice that you’re holding your breath as if you were underwater.

I blame the neighbour below for listening to horrible electro beats attempting to mimic the sound of a heartbeat. You can’t mimic or overhaul a heartbeat’s sound with a different rhythm and believe it’s the new trend.

I’ve decided that I’m no longer into electro unless it’s done professionally by Alec Empire, Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross, Alessandro Cortini, or Ladytron.

I haven’t meditated for almost two weeks, and the panic attacks have returned with some funky eczema on my face. Just to let you know that below that layer of skin is nothing to discover except for some dead cells that were once a part of me. They used to enable the regeneration process, and I was thankful.

If you think about how much of you die every day to give birth to something better, you feel guilty.

One part of you is trying its best to support these cells as an act of kindness, to return the favour. Still, the other part of you (you might want to call it the unconscious, or compulsion) wants to kill, 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 accidentally broke my capsule with my nail, and the yellow powder scattered all over my hands. It was supposed to dissolve in my stomach.

I’ve overwhelmed my cells too much, and I’m sorry. There is never anyone to blame for your misfortunes. After all, you made it happen. It’s easy to hate that person or that thing, but it’s easier to transfer that hate onto paper and remove it from the soul, piece by piece. It may take years or your whole life, but you can accelerate it if you want.

Everyone knows you differently, looks at you differently – nothing is more confusing than that. Everyone has in common: they know your name, but then again, each one pronounces it differently and 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 was ten, and he was giving me piano lessons, which were dreadful.

However, I don’t resent my mother for urging me to find a hobby. 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.

The evil adults from my childhood were a female paediatrician and a male piano teacher. They hated my guts, too, so 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. He was a competent teacher, but it took me over six years to realise that I wasn’t made to play music.

Now listening to Schubert singing to a beautiful crow, I wonder what if he’d been my piano teacher. Would he have written “good night” at my door?

When listening to Trent sing Something I can never have, I wonder whether I will experience the same sentiment of redemption one day.

After discovering writing at the age of eleven, I had obviously assigned myself to 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 into words that have no meaning to you, except 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 is right. Just don’t ever let me know. Because if you do, I will crush you.

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

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

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