The Casualties

I hate writing public diary entries, but all things are fair because it's wartime, and i am counting casualties; therefore i feel like writing this, "it's shit", but entirely true for a change.

Those days, all those dark ways, the London before the recession; every little bit belonged to us. Did we shine more or is it already my memory overexposing? Your jet. black. desert hair, your weird desert hair and wild beard and when you said goodbye, you wore a camouflage jacket and a rolling stones tour-shirt and you were the most beautiful thing on this planet that you just had sliced into bits with two songs; you played them for me, and everyone paralyzed on the dance floor, while I was hiding in the toilets. 

Weeks later I went up to the hotel room with that other man, while you were watching, the super famous dj, the villain, your enemy, just to tell you that I love you, but you did not get the message. Up in his suite I played Grand Theft Auto until he had to leave for the airport and gave me a lift home to my flat in Kew, right opposite the royal botanical gardens. You are more famous now than him at the time, I told you you would be, when you were about to give up, remember? But what exactly does it help me now that I was right and that I always see these things?
We had parties in the basement of a mansion in a newly build pool space with tiles from turkey and I took the pictures, if this would have been Andy's place, no one would have remembered Edie and I would be dead by now. I always hated china white, but they got me too many drinks there, my friends all had drivers but I had the cutest smile and I loved the night busses, I never told anyone. I was the cool girl, the school’s real life soap opera and the stars were mine, with my huge flat and my empty fridge and my uncle’s champagne. 

But then here comes love – the one that works out, no songs, no misunderstanding, no tears, no fights, no breathless escapes: oh hurray haven’t we been waiting for you! And suddenly being a grown up is romantic and we graduate, we move, call all bland things bohemian and the shoes aren‘t that high anymore, the bass-beats fade, Brian Wilson's music just tortures, and when he saw the price tag of one of my new dresses I knew that this was over and done with, too. He was so curious what I might be about, underneath all these songs and words and clothes and sounds and fragrances and art school pretentiousness, he so wanted to know; the real me, and he said I had to give up the poses, and I did give up on the high heels, my glittery miu miu paraphernalia, my dark ways, my wild ways, my dancing steps, my poses, my dresses and disappeared. 

(still from the video "never being boring", Pet shop boys, directed by bruce webber)