But the memory remains still, the future remains silent


Nineteen is like Pure Morning of Placebo. The morning to come soon, where you can breathe no matter how much it haunts you, you can forget without a place to hide. And there’s Twenty two , the sort of morning which expands, degenerates and becomes this flat strip, where you can still run, but where sometime around your last days in the age time stops fitting your own size. When she was 22 the future looked bright, but, like Alice, all she could think about was Time.  Time to settle, time to hide, still the time will not yet run but pay you these chances to laugh, to fall in love with strangers and perfect yourself in snatching their hearts out. To chase heroes to leave behind and to alienate yourself in the unbearable dim light of your own pages.  Your shoes glued to the cinema steps and your heart pounding on that film noir echo that fed your skin all its traces and shades. Since premier jour it’s been the same, Coldplay with the lights out and June in bloom.

Eight years later there won’t be any mornings left. Your gown will be so dark and your shoulders so pale white, you’ll have bloodflowers on your lips. And so unfaithful to at least three hundred mornings. You like to think, your second  novel will be out in October 2016 and according to all the critics – so much different, so much better than the first. Which was a sum, a terrible collection of unhappy accidents. You will, however, still name it Tôt le matin, quand il était encore temps. The air you’ll never get used to stop breathing, the phobias and little monsters that you grown so fondly of and never want to shake. Tu te dis, “tu essait d’être patient”, mais les lettres, les mots, les lignes de ta vie seulement aboutissent à grimaces désagréables, qui n’aboutissent qu’à des rides. You always dressed so pretty for disasters. You say to yourself, everything looks great, but your future doesn’t fit or match any other lifelines, any other lifetime.

You go home, the memory remains still, the future remains silent. So she doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, she removes herself from the bed of so many ghostly shades, where he never slept, where she never weighed his body with her own. She walks slowly through the leftovers of her own age. Le vertige d’mes paroles d’amour et de desastre. Michel, Frédéric, Craig et Chris Martin, tous mes poètes malicieux, extatics, merveilleux, tous si peu probable, pour cette journée et cet âge. They won’t let the morning come soon, happily never after. Welcome, ghosts.

Photos: Adriana Neagu
Dress: Crepe de Chine, my mother’s

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