Fivehundred stories of dreams and lies

All the stories that constitute the world, the times, the spaces. Narratives, as my star would have said. Those that for her are broken, disrupted, not quite the same from one time to another. My stories, the ones residing in my body, are not coherent. I engage in their production, I love the tellings, I enclose myself in the representations. Yet, they are never universal, they cannot be bridged and they constantly transform – themselves, me (I, who embody them and yet never own them), my surroundings.

The one story I constantly reform, simply because I do not know how I should tell it, is the narrative about us. It never feels right, neither on my tongue nor in my body. It is my abject. It makes me, justifies my bad behaviour and my addictions (I have a collection of Others, of attention providers, of unwhole sex, of torn experiences I could have done without but did not want to).

The narrative about us constructs me as the helpless one, positions me far back in time. I sit in your lap, you comfort me because I have tripped and scarred my knee. You place your warm mouth on my hair, exhale. Rocking me back and forth, humming about the mother of trolls in a low voice. No evil exists, no protection is needed, I only know of this world, the unconditional and loving. There cannot be contradictions, no questioning, no distinctions between the world and me, no reality that hasn't already become a dream.

This is the story I miss, the one that can never be told as a documentary. But, please do not change this one. Leave it intact. I need it in order to perform the days successfully (which I sometimes do to an extent that amazes me). I need construction since I cannot have you.