Tamara Stamenkovic
Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

An empty frame in the museum of art

Do you remember that (not)important day? I made a fool of myself at an art museum standing in a blank frame, trying to look intellectual. You looked at me, surely thinking: “Crazy or lost?“. And you didn’t laugh at me, but at the painting next to me. I went home in a blind rage, thinking: “Art is stupid and makes fun of itself.” I made another image in my head, dedicated to your complete ignorance of my unexplored magnificence. And I know you hate the music I listen to (you can’t stand the noises and gesticulations of people in a trance), and I don’t care when you play a ballad that reminds you of your childhood. But I can’t help myself not relating you to the things I love, you know? Even though it’s all wrong. You, with the flower in your hair, and I, the little prince, trying to get the princess. Still, when you walk down my street, I insensibly take the camera, turning my head from the constant flow of some dysfunctional thoughts to you. But I see you differently in the lens of my eye. I feed myself with sarcasm, to avoid the insight that life has no purpose, that our constant pursuit of meaning leads us nowhere, makes us cold and pointless. But the truth is, you’re not meaningless, except when I make you like that. And I’m approaching you, and in the split-second, I’m thinking of a newspaper clip: 13 habits of toxic relationships we didn’t know existed. Yes, I’d even count that. Because, you, among my most common fantasies, along with those where I am my favorite horror antagonist after I get my wrists back in place. Again. If you knew about this, you would say that I just love the idea of ​​you and that I don’t want you. That I, like Shakespeare, use you to dignify myself, and perhaps you would be right, on the other hand, I would say that you are perfectly fine and that I could put up with you. Imagine the two of us – you, sleeping peacefully, inspired by the seriousness of an adult, and I, lying beside you, incapable, unstable, young and disoriented, watching you sleep and turning myself into a pathologist who has to have an autopsy performed on you. Even though you claim to understand where my need to wander comes from and how my mind works, you will never have me entirely, but share me with hundreds of imaginary beings, thoughts, and incidents, some of which occasionally seem more important than you. Don’t ask me to rip my heart out for you. I don’t have it. You are a girl of a dull romantic nature, and I only write love letters in the concepts of delusion and a vague idea of ​​an event that will never happen. You are the girl people write books about, and they don’t write about me, but they talk about how hard it is to love me and how suicidal I am about my feelings. Do I have them? And you are a triumph for whoever deserves to conquer you. What about a worn-out social concept of a man like me? But more importantly, you are a girl who knows how much she is worth. I have a hundred and thirty-six ideas about how the world could end today, and a trillion ways I can prevent it from happening. But today I think of you instead of saving the world. You are the “obsessive” of my compulsive disorder. I can only give you a part of it- which is also a type of love, and you, don’t accept it. Put on a dress and admire the paintings in the art museum, and stay so dignified intellectual. I’m just a rusty frame. You won’t look as beautiful inside it as you already are.


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