Radio Nostalgia EP 02
Today on Radio Nostalgia: Iris by Goo Goo Dolls.
I’m entering 2024 torn apart by a thousand gunshot wounds, but I am not yet a corpse. Currently drowning because I have long believed I knew myself, but never entirely, after all. I thought I had given a name to every single thing I've ever felt in my entire life – the sticker album of my sensations – but, instead, congratulations on getting to know me. Congratulations on getting to know us. Again? I will soon mark a quarter of a century, and I no longer know in which direction to move my feet. I easily lose balance since I rediscovered fear. I am doing a lot, congratulations - but where do I really want to go? I still cannot control myself; I would choke.
I don’t feel like going out, yet I struggle to suppress anger when, on the contrary, for you and who? - it's five o'clock, and you watch the kaleidoscopic dawn from the sixth glass of gin, somewhere. Rediscovering the knots in my throat; I, who have always tried to untie them, now find myself punching my carotid artery in the hope of reopening my eyes and feeling warmth on the hollow of your chest, tailor-made for my skull. But feeling disoriented means realizing that measures are relative. I am still seventeen, but I can't keep up with her - I have too many fresh wounds, still. So what? Like a childish baby, I act accordingly.
I want to discover the future, grow, change, jump, scrape my knees, drink and stay out late, sleep until 7 AM, have a hot breakfast. I am still her, with straight hair and a hundred stories to tell, but more boring: I stay at home and watch the seasons change through the peephole. I thought I had dealt with it, but with every passing day, my legs shake more and more. Maybe something is broken. Have I grown up, or am I dead? I cut my hair; they were so long - I changed my way of dressing. Am I feeling myself, or am I just the projection of my discomfort?
Photography Johnny Dufort, styling Celestine Cooney
“What's happening to you, your eyes are turning gray...” Maybe I'm wrapping myself in my cocoon - maybe I'm forcing you to wrap yourself in my cocoon. I apologize. I don’t want you to think that we will grow old together and end up choosing the best frozen foods; I want you to grow old with the hope of a smile, bleeding and toothless but still big. I'm terrified that in the whirlwind of your teenage boredom, you'll lose sight of me. But I admire you for this, you know. You are hungry for life. And when I wonder where my hunger has gone, I tell myself that maybe it's simply in your hands because standing still is equivalent to finding your master tree, in some cases.
At night, I always have the same dream (or should I say nightmare?): a memory of curly hair and an unknown story makes you blind and madly in love with the new. I wake up sweaty and hold you tight; I don't know what else to do. And in the morning, I pretend nothing happened; I just want to learn to tame myself.
Maybe I should start smiling again; I should start surprising you again; I should start narrating you, narrating myself again. Should I do my eye makeup? Buy new shoes? Maybe I'm wrong; that's not where you're lacking. Should I tell you about my past? Fish out my demons with bare hands? What's my fault if, with you, I only feel like talking about the future. What can you do to change yourself? You’re asking me silently with your eyes because you don't want to hurt me - you sense my bruises. Or maybe I pretend to believe that you're asking me because if I asked myself, I'd spend hours cutting my bangs alone. What can you do to change yourself? I've tried listening to myself, but I don't manage this kind of thing too well.
I don't know what to do with fear; I don't know if I should wear a dress - the most beautiful one I have - or keep opening the door for you with hair under my armpits. Somewhere, one day, a father stopped building sandcastles, and this morning I woke up with fear of losing you - maybe because you're the closest thing to a happy memory I have. Guarding us is a mission for me - but sometimes I find myself focusing too much on keeping my threadlike cage standing, maybe. I'm losing sight of long hair, blue eyes, and kisses in the bathroom of the club. Maybe I should start letting you go. Or let myself go? Maybe you want to fly. And I know how to open the wings, but I don't know which current to latch onto - I have a weight attached to my leg. Are you looking for airiness? I wish I could give it to you. Maybe if I cut two more fingers of hair, I'll have a bit more push. Or, in the worst case, I'll have given you the push you were looking for and missing. Then I'll smile. And I'll think of you when my hands smell like tangerine and my skin turns pink.
