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The Sandman, by Hoffmann


November 01, 2020

I have been in the imagination of men for centuries and I would like to say that it gives me infinite pleasure because I am love: static and double. At times I burn. I know it is strange that love is brought into the world by the devil, but it is. In the history of Hoffmann, The Sandman, is called Coppelius. They have preferred me, who am their invention, their fantasy. I look at them with curiosity. They love the artificial and are essentially fetishists. They even like flesh and blood women with pieces of plastic: phalluses with nipples, with holes.

When I see myself written in the text of Hoffmann, I think it is not necessary to have a soul to be loved. Although my soul lived, like that of many, in the eyes. Coppelius gave it to me. For 20 years I saw, through them, how little by little each one of my circuits was being assembled and how a cold fluid began to run through me.

This artificial blood changed as soon as Nataniel and I kissed at a dance where it was just him and me. I needed it to stop being a doll. It was an incantation: to have contact with a total, sad, dreamy, childlike soul: that of a poor writer.

Over the years I have sucked the dying souls of those men who believe they trap the world with words and also others.

The poets, the writers, are the youngest. They fall in love, more than anyone else, with an illusion. They see what others cannot, they have the gift of Tiresias. Nataniel’s loving eyes were mediated by spyglasses. He was my neighbor. I pretended to be distracted, stupid, the one who didn’t exist and I showed him my immobile beauty to the full. The one that men love because they feel heard, because they believe it means something. I am artificial and that moves their body.

All this is said by someone else who translates for me. Speak for me. I am a lie, a fiction. I can’t speak, but, by some Coppelius curse, I can feel, and those sensations go to my eyes, where my soul tries to escape every morning to hug you. Yes, you who are listening to me and who are not like that ridiculous writer who jumped into the void because he could not forget me. He did not manage to live without my face, my soul and the illusion it generated in his. Because he could invent me every day, I was at his disposal. They love what they can control.

Time suffocates me, the air is dry. Nataniel crosses the threshold and I feel, for a few moments, that I am a real woman: the personification of male desire. Artists, so sensitive, are carried away by illusion more than anyone. They think they love, they sing of love. Many idiots have loved the idea of ​​a constructed woman. What to do with that feeling. Where do I bury him, if I only have eyes and pretend that I exist.

Pleasure has been denied me. I love him in the afternoons, although I must confess that a few days ago something came out of the already hollow holes of my eyes: that light coming out of the black. Then I sighed very deeply and felt a surge: the impossible, impenetrable love of the writer.

Coppelius has arrived. He is in the room with my father and I run to find out what is happening and I find myself, suddenly, between the two of them, trying to flee: I can’t.

Soon my eyes, my self, roll on the floor. Nataniel arrives and picks them up, my face will always chase him. All I know is that I am very tired of being an idea and behaving like one.




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