Quillbreaker

“I’m so interesting, I’m so great, but I’m really such a fuck-up and it’s such a waste”, sings Mark Sandman on one of my favourite songs of his. Which is true of myself, I feel. For as big of an ego I have, I’ll always feel like an impostor, constantly trying out stuff way beyond what I’m qualified to do and failing. And for as much of a failure as I feel like I am, I still want to be universally (and individually) loved and cherished. I want to be a “good investment” even though I feel like anyone who invests in me is a fool. If that’s a ridiculous idea to follow, it’s because I’ve quit trying to figure this out after years of trying, and now live straddling that knife’s edge between keeping my fragile dignity intact and accepting my eternal sense of inadequacy to the things I try to do. Because this doesn’t reflect in a sense of “whatever, I’m as good as I’m gonna get, take me as I am”, much on the contrary: it is the eternal fuel that keeps me going. There is no point in trying to explain this further unless you are annoying. 

“The Quillbreakers” was actually an imaginary hard rock group that I drew up on a school notebook in seventh grade instead of paying attention to Maths class. I drew several of these imaginary bands, filling up every niche in the sphere of music that I listened to at the time – a heavy metal band called Gräve, a psych rock band called The Great Emerald, a queer punk band hilariously named G.A.Y. Incoming, and my stand-in for the Beatles in this universe were three brothers called The Nomads. The Nomads’ signature hit was what would eventually become Starcrossed on my first album. The name The Quillbreakers was meant to be a Led Zeppelin-esque, defiant rule-breaker type name. I guess Quillbreaker as a concept still carries some of that, but a lot messier, as things tend to get the more real they are. 

All this is a long-winded way of saying that I’ve been drawing, making up stories and songs since I remember existing as a person. Who knows how many metaphorical quills I’ve broken. I’ve never written with a quill and I’ve zero idea of how easy or difficult they are to break, but I know the feeling of a broken pencil tip, a burst pen, or a mechanical pencil running out of lead all too well. I got to keep trying and failing and sometimes making things right, because what else is there to life besides this?

I won’t fix you, honey

I like whatever’s wrong with you

You remind me of myself

In all your serious senselessness

And when I call you, dear love

It’s like the planet’s going to

Grow wings and fly away

Leave me behind forever

And maybe you like my buttercan pop, babe

My little bit of a lullaby

These are words I’ve kept for myself

And if you want I can tell you

I’m a quillbreaker, I’m a smile faker

I can’t do nothing right

Look at me, now, honey love

And try to read my Ginevra eyes

Give me something to obsess about

Something to believe

I will be your riddle, babe

Give you all you least expect

Be a taylor for your ballet

A good maid in a maid café

And maybe you’ll stay to see the circus

My downfall on a starry night

These are words I’ve kept for myself

And if you want I can tell you

I’m a quillbreaker, I’m a smile faker

I can’t do nothing right

Is that alright?

I can confuse you any day, dear

But I’ll never let you go

I will never be quite clear, love

But I’ll never let you go

You won’t understand me

Like I never understand myself

Love is in the air tonight

Yes it is!

And maybe you like me

Maybe, just maybe

And so I’ll sing you a lullaby

These are words I’ve kept for myself

And if you want I can tell you

I’m a quillbreaker

I’ll try to make things right