WHO IS THAT GUY?

 

Sometimes I Google myself. I did it again this morning — for some reason. A picture popped up. The first one. I look at it and think: photoshop? I zoom in, lean closer, then think: maybe it’s not. Who is that guy? Who? He’s wearing a cap. I don’t wear that kind of cap. Or…? Ah, I remember I actually do have that cap. That makes me feel better, at least I recognize something. But I still don’t know anything. Why am I behind the curtain? Like in some Lynch movie where everyone talks backward, and the curtains smell like forgetfulness and old coffee with a taste of who knows what. Lynch’s coffee. Well, okay, that’s not a problem. Maybe I was in some cabaret show? Or maybe I just wanted to run away from some crazies. The mafia… insane dentists… people dressed in strange costumes… fans… there are only a few, but they exist. I look at the face up close. The eyes — strange, wet, like they belonged to someone else. The nose — like it’s not mine, maybe borrowed from some puppeteer at a fair. The mouth — tight, very serious, as if I’m really preparing for some important speech. But what kind? Oh no, those aren’t my cheeks, that’s definitely an Instagram filter. No, that’s not me. Impossible. But that guy, for some reason, reminds me of me. I ask my partner Ana. She says: — You silly… That was at the festival in Binic, 2023. You weren’t feeling well, so you went to lie down behind the curtain.