I should just write. Maybe the inspiration will flow from my brain like the ink from my pen and maybe the sound of violently pressing the keyboard will bring my heart to a path and back from the distracted zone of nowhere and everywhere. Maybe I should write because I actually do have things to write about, friends and laughter that have passed by, and imaginary people in faraway cultures whose adventures lies at my feet, waiting for my hands and letters. And maybe I should not write. Maybe I should never write again because I never write when I’m happy. Or maybe I should just learn to find another source to creativity, bright days and sunshine instead of bittersweetness and hearts teared apart. And maybe I should write because whatever the answer is, I know that the only way to find it is searching through my thoughts, and the only way to search through my thoughts is falling through them line for line, a never-ending flood of commas and vowels and me.
The weather is getting colder and the sun rises bright every morning but the sky opens up for rain every dark afternoon. Autumn is closing in but I don’t want to think about hot chocolate and oversized sweaters, not yet. Not now when school hasn’t even started and I can still lock myself inside my room and ignore that time passes by so quickly.
There is literally not a lot more I can do than be grateful. I’ve always liked that we’re sort of “allowed” to be angry with God but I’ve never quite managed it. I write one angry sentence in a prayer and then go on to always, sooner or later, realizing that my text instead has turned into gratefulness. As I write, I realize how small it is, or how everything worked out for the best, or in any way how God was always right there in the situation. I thank you, thank you for your love. For the people you’ve put into my life, and for the life I’m allowed to live, so lucky in comparison to such a big part of the world. I thank you for every single person I’ve loved, every single person I’ve met, close to me or now far away. And I thank you for the peace you put in my heart so that I have a core strong as stone when you send me out on adventures.
On the beach next to my grandma’s summer house we found a pier where I asked my mother to put her hand in the water for it to look like she’s magic. I don’t know, she might be. And underneath the sand you can find clay that you can shape and let dry, or just apply all over your body for a homemade clay mask thingy. We looked very strange. It was a good day.
There is nothing you can do on this earth that is as great as loving God and loving other people. I’ve always been annoyed by how every single song is about love, every single thing in life centered around whether or not yo have someone special, and it still bothers me a bit. Because love is more often than not, not romantic love. It’s every single person in your life, your best friend and your family and the stranger whose bus ticket you offered to pay. True love starts in a heart that’s overflowing, and it’s everything, touches everyone.
I swear to God I will never forget. I could write down page after page of the inside jokes, the memories and the stories from this week, but I prefer to keep them securely in my heart, just in my head and in the messy handwriting in my moleskine. I’ve been away to a youth camp where I always seem to spend the best weeks of my life, and I do not want to be here. I do not want to be home. I want to still be there, not thinking about the fact that the disadvantage of getting to know people from all over the world is that you can consider yourself lucky if you get to meet them once a year. And now I’m stuck in this room, in this house, in this city and in my school with these people. If I could, I would relive the weeks I spend at this camp over and over again for the rest of my life. I just want to go back.