Radio Nostalgia EP 08
Today on Radio Nostalgia: City of Stars (From “La La Land” Soundtrack).
Since I hit the ground with my face, I’ve been trying to reclaim my own space, also pushing myself to do things I didn’t really want to do—exploring Eleonora’s life with different eyes, reminding myself of who I was before I became like a featherless bird again.
I went out with my dad this evening. "So, you broke up?" "Yes, dad, or at least HE broke up with ME." But on the bright side, I found a remote job, and I ate yesterday. "But you’re beautiful, you’ll bounce back stronger than ever; you need to focus on yourself." "But I don’t want to talk about this, dad, gift me a bit of lightness." So he starts telling me about his colleagues and the restaurants that are there or not there anymore, and suddenly I’m ten years old again, in a playground in a green space, scraping my knees and petting rabbits. I’ve found it! A safe haven, but where was it hiding? And how safe is it really? It’s just a wishful projection—you, dad, are far from being a safe haven. But I remember Cesare’s restaurant, and years later, I can laugh with you, right here.
I feel cowardly; I feel vile. Am I perhaps tainted because I seek an escape from pain by letting myself be consumed by an even greater pain? I try to sit in a corner of my mind and immediately recall the dark circles and the bloody knuckles, the bathtub with the lights off, and cigarettes on a balcony that overlooked nothing. It’s easy to process grief when you lean on the memory of a greater loss. Beauty—she was the most precious thing I had, and living in pursuit of it in fleeting moments and dirty corners seemed the most right to me.
Beauty has always hidden in the most pokey corners; depression both shaped and still shapes my taste for the grotesque. There’s something sweet in the tragic attraction to rottenness, a necessary compassion for the deepest parts of ourselves—I find the decadent allure of hourly hotels, €20 for daily use, incredibly fascinating. Sometimes I’d pay dearly just to go back there, for the sheer pleasure of stealing a few hours from cerebral existence and getting spat on to numb the pain. Being an object feels degrading when you have something to lose—but what if I stopped feeling anything at all? PLEASE RETURN MY KINDNESS TO ME!
I dream of an attic with a skylight, where I can sit on a sofa and talk to someone for hours. I dream of someone who listens and says, "ELEONORA, YOU'LL RUIN ME!" because I’ve got this teenage rage and senile disillusionment that I’d gladly throw at them; they’ve always been my best allies! I want someone to whom I can swear (I swear) that I’d never leave that sofa or their eyes! I want to be loved—would you love me? I desperately need to be alone, but I also desperately need to remember where I left all that tenderness, my dear soul… what have they done to you? I keep searching for beauty, and I still find it, but who can I give it to? I can’t take it anymore.
I dream of having no gravity; I dream of freedom and painting my cheeks with cherry juice—passive masturbation, I scroll through websites but look at them with disgust; I just need visual stimuli to connect my neurons to my muscles. Intermittent fasting—I’m not hungry, and I don't want to eat. If I do eat, I throw up, and if I don’t throw up, I stick two fingers down my throat. My room is a reflection of my distress. It's fascinating when people live in hotels like they’re homes, and when they live in homes like they’re homes! It’s a shame that no one talks about living in homes like they’re hotels; the walls become a scapegoat for unquantifiable pain, with dirty tissues piled up beside the bed, empty bottles, clothes on the chair. I can’t sleep, not because I don’t want to (on the contrary, I’d like to dive into endless parallel worlds and run, run, run, run…
MY TEETH ARE FALLING OUT, ARE YOU LISTENING? Do you see the beauty in unspoken things and in red, flushed cheeks? The modesty in words, carefully weighed like bricks, do you see the beauty in the songs that play on the radio, always the same ones, and they sing refrains just because they want to… Do you see the beauty of the sea, of the pollen that makes me sneeze and makes my eyes itch, in the morning they're swollen—was it the tears or the grasses? I don’t have an answer; you don’t have an answer, and I like it when you don’t reply. The beauty in silences and small talks, the beauty of being profoundly powerless. I’d like to close my eyes and wake up feeling free…
ARE YOU READING ME? This sweet solitude of mine is abhorrent—I can’t lock myself away, I’m struggling to get out, but I love softening my eyelids; my muscles aren’t tense in my dreams. I meet my grandfather. Should I go out? And where can I find refuge? In my eyes or in my rooms, maybe now I’ll close my eyes, and tomorrow I’ll walk on a tightrope.
Saoirse Ronan in Dazed & Confused Winter 2019 by Paolo Roversi
