“How I wish I could have gazed upon such real beauty before they were gone!” said the boy. The P.A. system reverberated througout the building, “The museum is closing in ten minutes. Please visit our gift store if you wish to purchase plastic models of our marvelous collection. Thank you for visiting the Museum of Women! May the Father watch over you and your brothers ’till the day of the Mother and her daughters’ return. Have a nice day!”
Everything I have ever said in my adult life has, in one way or another, been a lie.
Now, let me tell you my story.
The son of a Partisan and a pianist, I was born in Ljubljana, Slovenia on January 31, 1946, the same day the new Yugoslav Constitution came into effect. I died on November 17, 1989, whilst working as a television journalist in the state media, when a large, colourful chunk of the Berlin Wall – dislodged by an enthusiastic and probably intoxicated young Westerner in a Bruce Springsteen t-shirt – fell and hit me on my head.
If I were a cartoon character I would like to be someone from Pokemon.
Because they always look so cool and they seem to have perfect hair, and also because then I’d own my very own Pikachu and get it to zap people I didn’t like!
Standing in the crowd, I felt that the people didn’t notice me.
Amazed as I was, I looked in the direction of their gaze.
A smashed, upside down car revealed the mystery of my presence.
I have to admit I’ve already fallen for him hard. But it’s harder to expect my feelings to be reciprocated when he exists only in the pages of a book.