Despite the fact that most of my readers are deeply tired with the singer Fishbach (from her real name Flora Fischbach)’s issue recurrence in my writings (however, do I really care about my readers’ opinion?), I aim today, symbolically and exactly 6 years after having seen her for the first time performing live, at highlighting the two following key points:
(1) During the last 6 years, I would never have survived to my Bipolar Disorder-related existential anxiety oscilloscope without Fishbach (which means, in the end, and at least, not only Flora Fischbach but her music, her 2017’s band members [Michelle Blades, Alexandre Bourit, and Nicolas Lockhart; and maybe most of all Valoy, composer of most of her first album’s lyrics], and, step by step, other French-Pop bands such as Requin Chagrin…);
(2) The extremely sad side of the story lies in the fact that between 2017 and 2019 a large part of my entourage, by trying by any mean to take me away from Flora Fischbach in person (jealousy?), have not only increased my loneliness-related obsessional issues but also turned me into a dark cyber-stalker. The problematique of my 2017–2019 life time line can, indeed, be written as follows: how to pass from a respected groupie (in 2017, Flora Fischbach wrote extremely nice dedications in the sleeves of the records I bought after her concerts) to an uncontrollable psychotic person suspected of Islamic radicalization (see my former 2019 site Fishbach Program: New Insights Into Terrorist Attacks; now in the hands of the French counter-terrorism services).
That extremely simple being set down, I have to furthermore highlight the fact that few people understand how my mourning is double and will last for years: mourning for what I have inflicted to Flora Fischbach and mourning for what I could have become because of my social isolation, the latter being explained by what the Others have chosen, since 2016, to see in my Bipolar Disorder and related behavior.
Should I swear here I will never write a line about Fishbach anymore? Nonsense. Should I evocate how my love/lust for the actress and columnist Nora Hamzawi in 2019 was really more intense? To be continued… Should I renounce to pure loves an look for a dirty woman?… Illusory loves: suicide or illumination?
Love. Six years ago, then, on 14 March 2017, for the first ‘important’ Fishbach’s show at La Cigale, Paris, I was standing in the audience’s second row (i.e., less than 2 metres from the stage). In these days, I would live in a Fishbach and more-related extremely joyful hypomanic whirlwind. Euphoria could not be stopped and I was in search of love and lust all the time. During the concert, at first sight, I fell — childishly but truly — in love with the bassist Michelle Blades (whom I considered as reminiscent of Camila, my ex-Chilean girldfriend [same age, same latina roots, same silhouette, same dragonfly-like attitude…]) and subsequently with Flora Fischbach. When the latter began to sing the song “Dans une boîte en papier”, lit a cigarette, and laid down on the stage’s floor, I was paralyzed: it was not only a question of beauty: I could clearly perceive the spinning of her pupils behind her closed eyelids — was she looking at me? I have since then always used the term love, but what is ‘love’ in this kind of context? I mean: you know the ‘Lady’ is ‘inaccessible’, i.e., too famous, too intellectually impulsive, too charming, too adored, too young, too… ‘much’ for you, but you just cannot help it. Therefore, what do you do? You progressively learn to deeply know the person, until having a kind of ‘Florapedia’ in your mind (smile), until Flora becomes really Flora, i.e., the Roman Goddess of flowers and of the season of spring, until having a true (cyber-) soulmate inside of you. What for? For handjob purpose? (Strained smile). When, in France, at the end of 2016, you learn you suffer from Bipolar Disorder and are fool enough (or masochistically clever enough) to letting your entourage knows it, you know you are socially fucked up — and, thus, you wait for a clear sign from God. God sent me Fishbach and, during my lowest moments as well as during my highest moments, but most of all during my exponentially increasing moments of loneliness (which means most of the time, actually), I inserted in my heart and soul Flora Fischbach as my (cyber-) Siamese Twin. In Spring ‘17 and most of all in Winter ‘18–‘19, my ‘Own Private Flora Fischbach’ was always present in order to help me in my fight/life with Bipolar Disorder. During the last days of 2018, everyday around 9 PM, in an incredible and unspeakable way, I was completely inhabitated by Flora Fischbach: I was not me anymore — and it used to feel so good since my social isolation had reached such an oppressive dimension that I was seriously regarding the option of ‘disappearing completely’ in a way or another… Yes, my Own Private Flora Fischbach or my Fishbach-drapped Siamese Twin saved my life, no more no less. She and I used to study and write a lot, smoke small doses of haschish and tens of cigarettes, and listen music endlessly (we had a preference for the unofficial YouTube video of “Last Flight” by Taï Phong, the first band of famous singer Jean-Jacques Goldman). She and I, by assuming the brain can be compared to a multiverse, used to travel through wormholes[1] from one universe to another — and, by this way, we met quite the whole Humanity, always taking care of seeing both the animus and the anima in every person met. From a psychiatrical point of view, She showed me my future (I swear the story is true): one night, She told me: “Vincent, Vincent! Stop! It is not a wormhole anymore… It is… A ‘bubble-wormhole’! Look! We have the same mental age, whatever our respective ages and educational paths in the real world! You have to take another medicine: you have to take Leponex (i.e., clozapine). Guess what: for one month, since Valentine’s Day, I have been testing clozapine (from 25 mg to 250 mg per day), and the molecule really works… Question: would the ‘true’ Flora Fischbach have experimented wonderful paranormal experiences at the end of 2018? Who knows…
[1] Just imagine a tunnel between two spheric rooms, to be precise two distinct consciousness’ areas.
Fear. Of course, Flora Fischbach will read those lines, at one moment or another. What do you think? I have been her Stalker, the Only One (her composer Valoy confirmed me this assertion in November 2021 […]). She may dedicate a part of her ‘free time’ in more or less quickly scanning my cybernetical activity. Maybe just as a part of you all, she is waiting for the Big Time, the ‘fatal’ word or gesture on behalf of me. That is a pity! Shame on the multiscale mediatic biases and nodes between her and me (I could call for by name many, many ones, but I will not…). Just an example: I have written the best interpretation ever of her song “Mortel”; nevertheless, it will never be published since I am labelled as ‘psychotic’. Considering the past, Flora Fischbach will henceforth always fear me and see in me the potentially dangerous psycho. Everything could have changed last year: I SHOULD HAVE ASSISTED A FISHBACH’S CONCERT, at least at L’Olympia, Paris, 30 November. Pressed by the Others, I progressively renounced. Instead, what did I do? Via Instagram, I harassed Flora Fischbach and the band Requin Chagrin with pathetic messages; one night, drowned into an anxiousness and megalomania crisis, trying to figure out what there was of Femen inside of her, I sent a long message to Flora Fischbach, begging her to humiliate and crucify me on her concerts’ stage. Despair…
Just a joke for the end. In the second half of 2021, whereas I was in a very intense depressive phase, I commented a picture of Flora Fischbach on Instagram and I made a kind of vow of chastity, writing something like: “you are too beautiful and pure; I prefer to live an imaginary eternal and perfect love with You than selling my soul to a no-one…” Should I bend myself to this statement?…
Bipolaroid 
One thought on “6 Years… — Another Insight Into The Loves and Fears Of My Life”