Completely random thought from the other day:
There’s never been a generation more aware of their own sin. They might not categorize it as such, and they might try to cover it up – or cure it – with some twisted form of self acceptance. But don’t underestimate how much the world knows its judgement. And how much it acts in compensation for that.
(And of course let’s not skirt around the edges of chains, but let’s focus on how they fall.)
I am the master of sleeping the whole day, but I can’t do it when my life is just an open undefined un-planned white void of a future when I look at it in my head. So I have to make plans. Lately I’ve been making really detailed schedules. I don’t want to feel like I have to do that every day, but it’s good. Also there’s that leaf I picked while I was out biking and longboarding (between 10 and 10.30 am).
And here’s a cozy picture from last week, when my friend asked if we should drive to the national park closeby, bring a thermos with tea and watch the sunset. Life is v autumnal.
I stayed behind yesterday. We went downtown to have a photoshoot and I stayed when my friends went back. I walked around in that detached-from-reality kind of way and looked at how the city I stay in looks like a postcard. Clear skies and shiny metal buildings and palms and palms and palms, sun that makes your face melt off.
Then I sat down on the rocks and was happy.
And this might sound sad, but I loved going to a sea that wasn’t full of memories. In Sweden it’s tiny towns and cozy houses and driftwood, people with wrinkles too deep, an ocean that slowly breaks everything. Here everything just is. No childhood memories. Just sturdy rocks and people dancing.
The bridge before I ran over it.
The bridge after I ran over it, resting on a bench in the shade. My face was so red people gave me worried glances when they saw me.
My postcard wish is that you don’t send me home.
(Also, backstage from the photoshoot..:
I wish I could lose control.
Splash colours until people cry by looking at them,
turn myself inside out and wipe my fucking blood on the canvas.
Instead I give up halfway through ugly eyes, drawn as if I were a pretentious 12 year old. Disproportionate figures and shapes that never become anything. The thing is, I don’t know how to draw. I repeat lines, and colours, look and remake, but when it comes down to my own expression, I’m empty. Just recreate by hands and in mind. Like we all do, are we nothing but radios? We understand something we think no one has understood before and we tell it or teach or live it. And even tuning in to that, the repetitiveness with which people think their minds are free, is just another of those realisations. Is that what I’ll blare about until the day I die?
Sometimes (too rarely) I forget to act normal in public and I sit weirdly curled up on the bus with the bumps shaking my handwriting. It’s slowing down though. Minutes of looking out the window between every sentence. My mad sadness settles into sleepiness. To quote a song that I like: I don’t know if this, is a surrender or a rebel.
For the first time in my life I don’t start school in the autumn. It’s weird, like one summer I just quit and didn’t come back. I can’t decide if that means my summer holiday is nonexistent – because I don’t have anything to take vacation from – or if it’s eternal. I would write more, but for some reason the words are running away from me. My thoughts want to stay in my head, or maybe I don’t know what I think. I’m scared, anyway. Terrified of the future, and whenever I tell someone my age, they say that they are too. That only sort of helps. I suppose the problem is that we don’t have any excuses left. We’re not stuck anymore. But we are. Stuck in our heads and stuck in the realisation that you need money for everything. Stuck in believing money is the necessary-iest. I don’t really know where to go, and all my energy goes to convincing myself that’s okay.
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.
I never used to like summer. It was too bright and too much and the sun kept bouncing of the pages in my books so that I had to go in or find a place in the shadow for it not to blind me. But now, now I’m a battery, constantly waiting for the sun to recharge me and warm my heart up enough for me to survive those long winter months, full of cold and never relaxing muscles. I think it’s a pity that we have to sleep. Were that not the case, I could see it all, stay up between sunset and dawn when it’s never really dark anyway because the sun may drop beneath the horizon, but never far enough that its light doesn’t still reflect on the cold sky. My creativity is fading though. Because I’m happy and some part of me doesn’t need the words flowing out of me at the moment, so I force them because it’s times like this I actually want to know how I feel.
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.