Symphony of Self-Pity

Monday night, Paris. 

I’m heartbroken. 

I’m at a piano recital. The girl torturing the piano is Chinese, but she could as well be Mongolian. My goodness, she’s way too young to unravel Beethooven’s pain. And what a racist I am. But fuck it, I’m upset and besides, nobody would know. She indeed has no fucking idea of what pain might feel like. As a matter of fact, I’m the one in pain right now. 

Music has no meaning without Pathos. Ah, I’m so brilliant coming up with Greek words like that! In that case, let me tell you what are the two main preoccupations of human existence. Eros and Thanatos (sex and death). Oh yes. Because while all these morons sitting around me are pretending to be moved by this carnage, I’m thinking of my ex, of course. And no, I didn’t join Silly Women Reunited. 

But nevertheless - Beethoven’s misery, my own.

I used to make love to him for the very fear of dying. That’s the reason why we have sex in the first place. Naturally, in order to keep the pieces going. Asshole. What an asshole he was. Oh god, and this Vietnamese girl at the piano, or was she Korean? I can’t stand her. She’s like part of a conspiracy I think, as in the exact moment in which I concentrate on how much I hate my long-lost lover, a piano string flies. 

I never go to classical music concerts. I force myself as if I’m ashamed to not fully appreciate it. I go to jazz concerts a lot. But I’ve been avoiding those lately. I’d been avoiding one particular song actually. And the streets. Certain streets. I’ve been avoiding those too. 

There’s no amount of genocides that could possibly measure my pain. Yes, because when people are in pain it’s all about them. Me me me. Obnoxious egocentric woman. 

Classical pain in a modern world.