on one cold night in london / i sat beneath the twinkling lights / and i thought i knew who i was

age 16, teenage angst-ing in london. taken on an evening i wrote about in my songs of youth.

“on one cold night in london / i sat beneath the twinkling lights / and i thought i knew who i was (..).”

then: i was in london for a summer course at goldsmiths, the university where my amore brian molko studied drama. i was in a transformative period of turmoil, which i later unpacked in a few articles published that year. yet, back then, i did not write much about the giddiness of it, which i want to highlight today: the giddiness of being a besotted schoolgirl, daydreaming between classes of the life her favourite rockstar lived in those university halls. wrapped up in mind twirls, i would wonder,

did he experience the delicious mix between ache & thrill that i was experiencing? did he wander the streets at night like i did, finding solace in the graffiti splashed upon walls? did he understand the sadness in him in ways i did not understand the sadness in me? 🤍

every night, i listened to him sing: “i am weightless / i am bare / i am faithless / i am scared” & “wrapped in lust and lunacy / tiny touch of jealousy / these bonds are shackle free” and i felt a desperate want to express the workings of my mind the way he did. to live vicariously, to share vicariously. to be alive, and sad, and jolly, and love and hurt.

i will share one of the, hmm, rough accounts of the turmoil side of things. it’s in romanian. you can read it here: http://www.sub25.ro/…/ce-vrem-de-la-brian-molko-in…

i will only translate the ending, as i feel distanced from it – in all the ‘good’ ways. it sometimes makes me uncomfortable to read past works in which i was so open, but overall i am proud of my teen self for expressing herself fully and not sugar coating her experience.

“when the sun rose, i was leaning against the window of my dorm room, with my hair dyed green, with smudged eyeliner and one broken nail. with lady of the flowers on repeat. black sessions, 1997. brian began the set with a poem he only recited that year:

Lady of the flowers, they’ve been dead for hours.
Interflora (..)

and i felt that i could be okay.”

the feeling was correct. 🤍

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