The Change

Nothing ever changes but I always feel like I have to be going.
Move on, get better, take steps and make sure that they’re showing.

But I am still myself.

I like abstract ideas more than I like reality.
Not as much how things actually are – but in my head – how they’re supposed to be.
When I look out at my imagined timeline I see an open future of daydreams and hope, but I don’t think about the fact that I’d have to carry myself there, like a backpack of stones,
I’d have to bring these spinning atoms, these empty doubts, these worn out bones.

I am still myself.

Sometimes I manage to get rid of it all,
all the fear and failure, every sadness, every fall
I rinse it away with new water, leave it behind in black footprints that I forget even were mine,
but then I learn the same things every time.

And in between I hide in the songs that make me wish you’d pity me,
I shut myself in and dream of being seen.
I’ll glare at you but you won’t see it because in comparison to my heart my voice will always be lesser,
because I am a hopeless people pleaser and I walk in pink hair and cute dresses.
And that’s the drawn out prelude of the end, because I am a ticking bomb,
but it’s all internal so it will never unfold.
I just have an itching soul with nowhere to explode.
I’ll slam my fists against stone cold floors because you were supposed to make me better.
You were supposed to fix me.

If you want me. You better make me better.

Still. After this, after all. I am still myself.

If you want to know why I run like this
It’s because I have fear dripping out through my fingertips.


She hated flowers. Held in her hand she would look at them when she received them for achievements or performances, she’d smell them and then she’d dry them so that they wouldn’t die.

I think about these things a lot.

People are creatures of skin and bone and puzzle pieces, and something’s always broken. They’re searching everywhere for the missing pieces, in broad daylight and neon in darkness, of darkness and of the truths or whatever parts of it they can find. There was a woman whose father was the big puzzle solver and he would hand her pieces at the right time for her to have them, he would heal whatever part of herself was a mystery, complete and build up until she got closer to him.

I think about these things a lot.

We’re cracks in concrete walls and wrinkly shirts and unmatching sunsets under blemished sky. But her room was filled with the dried flowers. And when her father saw it he stopped in the doorway and lost his smile. He asked her where the puzzles where and she looked down, saying that she was almost done. Lifted a hand that was almost covered, soon strong enough to reach out with. He tilted his head.
”I will be a good example.” she said, ”I will show other people what an end result can look like.” She would help them find their pieces, show them what they were looking for, answers for what didn’t fit or form the right pattern. A piece from her hand fell and she looked at him.
”See? It’s not finished. Can you just help me a little more?” and he reached out and removed anything that ever covered her and she fell with it.

I think about these things a lot.

The things weighing you down are dust and wind with a different sense of gravity imprinted as a lie in your mind. And she rolled away from it, sitting up, looking as the father put the pieces together on the floor.
”That’s where you’re supposed to make puzzles.” he said. Looking at the images starting to make sense and everything fitting together she got scared. The turn away from mirrors kind of scared, the open scared because you have nothing between you and it and she didn’t even know what she looked like anymore so he put her in front of a mirror, bumping her with his elbow.

I think about these things a lot.

”See, you kind of look like me.”

What happened with the days?

The days when the world was new, sky bright and beginnings chasing endings, roadside writing and barefoot jumping where we shouldn’t

They turned auburn and sultry, sweet like smoke and pretty like stitches and open wounds and fire (Then all things died before they grew again (All but people is circular))

(What happened to the days) They didn’t change. But the lines in you face are there to stay and as long as you say you always have now you’re lying the way our hearts teach us from the very first day (about immortality and life)

In the infinite expanse of time, the sun will rise as brightly the day you die as it does now. May your bruises leak sunshine and your heart be sore from memories of move
The Lazarus trees will never teach you how
Days don’t grow old the way bodies do.

Like what

I hate myself and I love myself and I am my own worst enemy and everything I could ever adore. Half of the time I have no idea what I’m doing, meaning that I write this sentence not having a clue how to end it and maybe that way it will end up great and maybe that way it will just fade into nothing as the lack of plans mixed with my own fear of action makes me too comfortable with being still. It’s itching, my soul, constantly knocking against the inside of my skin and I turn around secretly and tell it ’hush’ because I am in school or at work or at home and I have no space left around me to explode in. The earth is turning beneath me. Spinning. Walls are vibrating with the sound from the TV in the room next to this, the fridge is humming and everything is making noise, creating soundtrack, making itself heard in a world were nobody listens because why on earth should we, except that it makes me feel alive and so I breathe in. Look out or lock myself in or observe and see and live and listen, to all and everything and nothing and I have no idea how I live or what I see and sometimes I’m collected but this very moment I’m shattered all over the world and I have no idea what I’m writing down on this computer in this room in this tiny huge world but it’s okay. That’s okay.

When you have no one else who can say this to you, let me

You are not strange or normal or different or anything else that is not a description of you but a comparison to something and anyone and anything else. Do not get stuck in yourself believing that you are you and the world is the world, but remember that you are you and someone else is someone else, and the world is just a temporary home for a bunch of people at least as screwed up as you are (because God help me, do we need help). We’re not meant to do this alone so find someone who can pull pieces from the darkness and show you the light of being a part of this terrifying place, even though that means knowing that no one actually is. We’re outstanding, a species consisting of individuals existing within their own heads. Generation after generation, all believing they’re as alone in their thoughts and opinions and feelings as we think we are. Just be. And know that someone else is too.

(find someone in the sea of faces)

Drunk on feelings

I’m a drug addict, but instead of atoms you’ll find feelings injected in my veins, and I crave them. Crave them when I feel way to empty, and the longing after them might paradoxically be the strongest of them. I want to define them, ground them, put them down on pages and scream them out in words. Paint my skin with their colour and patterns and let the water in the watercolour paintings of them run down the walls. I’ve never considered myself a happy person, because I have this. Because when I’m far away from God I’m drowning. My heart can find no peace and so I climb the walls and tear at my skin and curse the laziness that just makes me want to sleep when my brain is to high to find any rest. I used to think I was controlled by my thoughts because I’m always thinking too much, but what I’m thinking about is now and always depending on what I’m feeling, with no rationality or logic to remind me that sadness or joy is temporary. I’m an addict because my feelings control me way to much and I love them.


I’m made of flaws, insecurities stitched together. I’m the most confident person in the world, yet people terrify me. I don’t trust them, I trust me, but I do not trust them to not judge me whenever I’m trying to make a joke or laugh too loud. It’s so beautiful being around people you love, and whom you know love you back. Still, I egoistically rejoice in the feeling of having people love you more than you love them. Simply because it’s an ego-boost. The problem of the world lies in us trying to fall in love with ourselves instead of simply being ourselves and falling in love with other people.

Artists dream

I just want to create stuff and get enough sleep. I want the contrasts, the darkness of the world and the brightest soul humanly possible. I want the world and I want to get out of it, be more than it to be able to look down at what it really is. I want late swedish summer evenings, when the sun doesn’t set and I can sit next to my big window painting in the light from it. I want to travel the world and I do not want to own my own heart. I want to be no one and I want to be the person everyone dreams to become. Freedoms lies in the traces of my decisions, rests in the way my heart could never be locked in a city to long, and belongs in the wilderness of nature and the love that makes me run.