Photos from the library, wednesday

(And evening notes, from my notebook:
One thing I know: this always helps, even if I forget about it when I stand alone above the clouds, millions of miles from the closest star. Eons between me and the closest physical object. A chair, a window. Writing like this always helps. Now I sit for real in this couch, big notebook leaned against my knees and teacup against my stomach. It doesn’t necessarily make me understand, but one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead,)



I used to write about it.

Now I have the words for it.  

Now I don’t need to find them.


(Okay, I know you’re not supposed to explain things like that, that was just a short little text you guys should have your own interpretation of, but actually I wrote that down because I looked through this blog and I used to write these really pretentious texts (and I still do), but they were sort of poetic, my thoughts about life and whatever I was fighting myself about at the moment. I still do that. Write things in my journal, about whatever mess I’ve got going on in my head this time. The thing is, it’s always the same mess. How do I write that a million ways. No, why?)

I fall asleep at the bottom of the ocean.

The world consists of ideas

This is something I feel like you’re ‘supposed to know’, and maybe I do in a way. Ideas, after all, are the beginning of everything. But I sat thinking about something on the bus today, the random sounds we make. Seriously, what even are words? Sure, we understand them, because our brain makes sense of them, but without that we’re just a bunch of creatures shaping our mouths differently. Or these letters. Lines and dots. We have a deal you know, when I write this, we have agreed what the words mean. If someone disagreed with you, or if everyone did, you’d be a lunatic drawing strange shapes and making weird noises without being able to reach anyone. It’s the same with money. Money doesn’t exist. It’s a freakin’ piece of paper. It would be as meaningless as any other dead tree if you wouldn’t think it symbolises some sort of value, or more importantly, if no one else thought so either. It’s something we know I suppose, but when I heard that ideas make up the world, I thought it was because they were the beginning of everything. An idea that then turns into something real, all that makes up the world. Maybe my mistake was considering just the things real. Ideas aren’t valuable because they come from sudden inspiration and result in something else, they’re valuable, because they are everything, they’re not the beginning, they’re just it. Things start with ideas, but systems are ideas. And systems are deals we’ve made in the hope of creating a better world, now we must all uphold them unless we want it to collapse.

Words and dictatorship

Media is king and we’re its peasants, master the internet and you master the world. Since perhaps ten years back. The world is changing, and it’s no longer the authors that control it. And perhaps we’re free in a way, it’s no longer the few people rich enough to afford books that know things, but we all have information and news at our fingertips. I thought about my friend with dyslexia and how she finds so much joy in being able to master the internet with photos and paintings. She doesn’t need words to say how she feels. But then I thought about her difficulties in school. Or when it comes to reading music, it still affects her in a lot of areas in her life.

And I realized that we’ve only changed the way we use our words, not how much they own us. Today, every person with a blog is a writer and we share our lives and feelings on social media without pause, we just usually don’t care as much about how we say it and how we use our words as an art form to express ourselves. Instead they’re a necessary mean that is about what we say and do, instead of how we say it. The art of the written word has been pushed away into the dark corners of the internet. And the art of the spoken word is in many ways since long forgotten.

Or has it just moved into a quiet dictatorship? If you master your words well, and for that you can be a rapper as well as a poet, you can have the world under your feet without people even noticing that it’s you they’re listening to.

Even though the dusty old poetry books are a source of magic, the source of the art of every single written and spoken word, rests within all of us. Anyone who cares about getting their point across, or want to be able to tell a story in a way that will make people laugh, have their hope in mastering talking. Anyone who wants their essays to be the very best, who want to blog with a voice that people listens to, have their hope in mastering writing. And anyone who wants to be able to ask the right questions by sorting through the 90% bullshit in every conversation and get to the core of what actually matters, have their hope in understanding what words are, how we use them and how other people use them.

The word is dead when the world shuts up.