Radio Nostalgia EP 05

Today on Radio Nostalgia: "Where Is My Mind" by Pixies.

Today there's only a little nostalgia; I wear a veil of apathy and total disinterest towards everything around me, instead. The only one granted permission to enter my cocoon is my dog, licking away my tears without asking or demanding anything.

All clothes by Jacquemus SS15. Photography by Johnny Dufort, styling by Celestine Cooney.

Getting ready for yet another interview: a sweatshirt - but over pajamas. The truth is, I haven't showered for a couple of days because I don't feel like it. My lovely city, I cannot stand you anymore... missed you, but I didn't miss your limited opportunities—opportunities to know, to explore, to know myself, to explore myself. My lovely Eleonora, I cannot stand you neither... missed you, but I didn't miss your bitter sadness.

Focusing on my years’ overview, I've realized I'm replaying the same vicious circle but in different forms.

I wanted to be a dancer, but I didn't know it. And when I wondered what it would be like, I discovered I could never do a passé properly and that I lacked balance. Physical balance, as well as life balance.

I started swimming. I used to dive, and I loved landing headfirst, then I stopped to give myself a voice - I often got sick and my throat hurt.

I started theater but didn't last long. Nowadays, I often think about how wonderful it would have been to act in theater because, in a way, I fucking act every day.

I just wanted to do music, but I lost the voice I had given myself—metaphorically speaking.

I wanted to be a perfect girlfriend: behave well, love unconditionally, and be committed for the long term. But I couldn't see a future.

I wanted to be a good daughter: graduate on time, find a job, and not disappoint my dad. He always disappointed me, by the way, so ultimately, I'm living my life while he wasted his. I do not regret the choice of taking my fucking time.

I wanted to do "get ready with me" on TikTok but always felt like I was lacking something: hair out of place and clothes from the market, felt always a step behind the standardized figures out there who talk so much, take your time, and give nothing back. Fucking empty copies.

I wanted to learn to cook properly: I can't plate dishes nicely, and sometimes pastries come out too thin. I ruined your favorite dessert... I’m sorry.

I wanted a flat stomach, but the gym is monotonous and bores me, and reformer Pilates costs as much as an apartment in the city center.

I wanted to do art, but so far, art only brings me brief satisfactions—they serve no other purpose than to boost my ego.

I wanted to write, and I often do, but I don't know where to go anymore. I seek refuge in words, as if I could enclose myself and just freely jump between commas.

I am the product of my “I wish I could," the unconditional reflection of my will. I am the constant change of my feelings, the perpetual dichotomy—I'm in heaven, I'm on earth. I'm a whirlwind of boredom; consuming myself, and every step costs me a tear. I am a shell, I only feel when I’m inside of me. And so I just ignore the outside and shut myself in; I live out of inertia.

Days are all the same; yesterday I was listening to Jungle on the street and smiling as I walked because it was warm—thinking about how beautiful summer will be, how beautiful it will be to reclaim life. Today, I realize I don't have a life, actually. I'm waiting for something, actively searching for something, and in the meantime, I’m just numbing myself: I get up, do my pointless little paintings, send out resumes, write. Write. Write. And why the fuck am I writing then, everyone tells me that rich bored people can live off words, painting their bourgeois erotic boredom.

Where is the turning point? Boh, I wish I knew.

I just keep doing it: prostituting myself to life for a bit of serotonin, I mean.

Sometimes I just wish I could...