Orange

Thursday August 3rd, Oslo
See Kurt Cobains suicide letter on the back of someones t-shirt for the first time. Follow the girl around various shops trying to read it. Something about being moody. everybody here is blond and good looking. and all they wear is orange, my favourite colour.
© Thom Yorke
I walk around, plunging my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans, as I let strands of my dyed blonde hair fall on my eyes. I don’t care much about the left as I can’t see that clearly and the bangs above my right are cut enough to see. So I go on, past the souvenirs, wondering how much time I have left for sightseeing.

I see a crowd of locals walk in, their heads blonde, not dyed or bleached out like mine, but natural, which catches my eye. Literally. But then I notice that more than half are blonde and the whole fucking theory of blonde hair as a dying gene floods away. I walk out the store, to see more blondes and I realize how fake I look.
Ridiculous, like a young kid trying to copy.

I shrug, feeling a curtain of depression take over me, as I go deeper into the orange crowd of Oslo.

To Boddah

Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.

I struggle for half a second, as my eye looks down the orange shirt.

Kurt Cobain.

It’s his suicide note.

I open my mouth to call out the blonde girl in orange. Then even every black head dressed in pink, purple, black, white, whatever seems orange to me and every hair strand natural Oslo blonde. I follow her, my eyes scanning the next phrase. The girl turns into a book store and so does her orange shirt. I don’t catch a glimpse of her face but I don’t need to. I follow her, keeping a distance like a perverted stalker, watching his victim, plotting how sweet his plan could be.

I wasn’t deaf, even if I was three quarters blind. I watched her, kneeling down, as she’d make a quick turn that could reveal me, my hiding place and my intentions which could be easily mistaken by something not as harmless. Soon enough after buying some book which was in a language I didn’t understand, most likely local, she headed outside. I saw more blonde people, more orange bursting as if I was in some utopia surrounded by people with real blonde hair no need to dye and dressed in orange.

I liked orange it wasn’t as depressing as my nature, so basically it made me happy.

Fucking ridiculous.

The people were also good looking two, with no lazy eye, while the other remains wide open and they also seemed taller than me. Not that I care about my height. About my eye my parents told me when I first woke up with the eye patch on my eye, literally, I dubbed in two and cried my fucking kid heart out.

I’m a stalker.

I walk on, basically running as she speeds up as I get distracted by several Norwegian girls making faces at me. I don’t understand them as I do not consider myself good-looking with my lazy eye, unlike their most likely healthy ones and dyed hair unlike their natural. The suicide note girl turns left into another shop. I follow her to see it to be filled of antique useless, to me, stuff, but she studies it fascinated, her eyes sparkling as she grabs something older than the world itself.
The blonde girl stands still so it’s my perfect chance to read the note.

I fail, as she drops the object, breaking the fragile statue in two. I rush out of the shop as if I’m a culprit. I realize that I was running, running away, afraid as if I was the one who broke it, the culprit to her actions. But what did I do? All I wanted to do was read that note. That plain, stupid, brilliant note which Cobain left behind to us insignificant mortals, leading on life. Not like I was fucking suicidal and wanted to see how real suicide notes should be and what context should they hold, I think I knew before anyway.

Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.

It burns my mind. What if our next album fails? What if we are a one-hit wonder, what if the sale charts lied? What if I’ll fade away? Should I burn just like Cobain did? Should I press a gun against my temple, feeling my right eye tremble, lips bit until blood fills the spit giving it a sick taste causing me to gag. I’m not brave enough to end my life, I’ll cry. Just like I did back when I got the eye patch, I’ll bend in two and fucking cry my adult, if you can call me that, heart out.

Then she walks out.

Orange.

Blonde.

Tired.

Sad.

Exhausted.

Smile.

Then she turns her back on me, walking on, well, sideways that I make a quick rush as if I could miss my life, the train of fate. I stop at a nice distance that I’m not breathing into the girl’s neck in a sexy way and not as far that I’d have to guess what the words actually could be.

Peace, love, empathy.
Kurt Cobain

Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar.
Please keep going Courtney
for Frances.

Frances? His daughter. Right, for the rotting future generation. But then I’m no father. All I have is a girlfriend, who I actually do fucking love. But that’s just it. I follow her more, slowing up keeping up her pace only at a rather safe distance.

For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU

Then I stop. That’s it.

That’s with what it all ends.

Love, passion, shagging, snogging and desire.

I watch her orange shirt go and mix into the crowd of the other attractive, blonde and orange wearing Norwegians.

-

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