Tag Archives: writing

I hurt myself in the weirdest of ways

Posted on by under life

The headline sounds like this could be a poem, but it’s the story of how I walked into a wall. I found it in my old notes and thought I’d share it. So, sometime during the summer of 2015: 

I woke up yesterday morning with a horrible pain in my back. I twisted and turned under the covers, but noticed that it was impossible to make it feel better, so I decided to stand up and go inside. Now, if you’ve read my blog for a while you know that I sort of live in a cabin in our garden, so this meant putting shoes on and crossing the lawn. And suddenly, while doing this, my vision started getting blurry along the edges. More and more of it turned black, you know the way it does when you stand up too fast, but then it didn’t stop and I realised that I had my eyes open and still couldn’t see anything. Delirious as I was my first thought was that then I simply had to feel my way inside, so I put my arms out to try and find the house wall. In my mind this was completely graceful. I tried to take a few steps forward. In reality I ran/stumbled a few steps and then crashed right into our porch.
I just imagine how this must have looked if any of the neighbours were watching. The girl next door wearing a huge white t shirt and clogs while stumbling across the grass and walking straight into the house before collapsing onto the grass, and then just sort of staying there even though it was quite a cold summer morning and had rained during the night. Wow. After a while I managed to stand up again and make my way inside, laying on the floor until everything stopped spinning. And that’s probably the most interesting thing that’s happened in my life lately.
(Fascinating)

Mood

Posted on by under Book Reviews, notes

It’s a lie that to create something beautiful, some part in you has to be broken. But I don’t know that. Because I have a twisted perception of what beauty is.

That’s easier, that’s smaller, and sadness fits. It fills my heart up from the inside instead of existing around it the way my happiness does. It’s small enough for me to hold its definition in my hands even though I don’t know what it is.

 

(I just finished reading Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira and it was small but quite deep and I fell down)

All Good Things Are Wild and Free

Posted on by under life

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.

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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.

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The bridge before I ran over it.

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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.

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My postcard wish is that you don’t send me home.

(Also, backstage from the photoshoot..:

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wow)

Zambia Travel Diary – Last Day

Posted on by under Zambia travel diary

2015.09.22 02.02  There’s someone screaming on the plane. Not constantly, just every now and then, but imagine a man’s voice sounding like a baby that’s almost crying. Also the movie I just watched left me with a bit of a bad feeling. I know I shouldn’t be scared, and I don’t know if it’s offensive that I am, but I decided to take a short walk and must’ve walked past where he sat so he started screaming and clawing with his hands (he sat a few seats in by the windows though) and I jumped and almost ran a few steps. Now in my seat with my heart still hammering, but it doesn’t really matter because I don’t think I could have gone to sleep anyway and now at least I’m not stuck in some middle stage.

This made me think of what a good story idea it would be to have someone mentally ill try to take control over a plane, and then make it really disturbing (Not to judge this man in question, literally don’t know anything about him), but the story idea creeps me out even more.

09.09 We’re landing. I can’t decide how much I mind. But I do want to take a walk through the forest behind my house. Just a short one. Because that’s a part of me and my childhood, but not, never, part of the frustrating feeling I want to move away from home for. (Sidenote: The 2nd Law by Muse on low volume is a very suitable background for flying today)

16.32 It wasn’t as cold as I would’ve expected when we stepped off the plane. Sweater was quite enough even though I could feel the colder air on my face, clear and crisp. It’s definitely autumn, but the leaves are still green, the sun still brings warmth to your face and the sky was blue. It could almost be a spring day, one of those early ones when you make an attempt at walking barefoot but the stones are cold under your feet. Or an early morning at a summer scout camp, or taking a break from skiing and having your body warm and the sun reflecting on the snow to melt your icy face even though the air is cold. I love these things so very deeply.

I did take a walk when I got home, even though it had started to rain and drops slid down my face. I found some colourful leaves then, that showed me that maybe this is autumn, but I don’t mind, that’s what I had expected. I am, however, gonna take a warm, long bath now. (I realise right before getting into the bathtub that my hair still smells like Zambia)

21.52 I’ve never been very patriotic. I love and very strongly dislike my country in the way you do with things that are what you are, yet so very different and they don’t understand. I love the way the world looks now, with the possibility to be international and unbound by cultures and borders, belonging everywhere and belonging nowhere, and it was first recently that I realised that regardless of the rest of my life, I will always be Swedish. It’s too late, I’ve already spent too much time here. I still try to ignore it though, maybe because most of the time I don’t even feel it. It’s like what I wrote earlier, that I don’t feel like I’m coming home, I’m just going to a different country. Lies, lies, how could I believe that it wouldn’t affect me to see it from the sky, forests and small fields surrounded by tiny red houses, like toys my brother played with when he was younger. How could I believe I wouldn’t react to the smell of it, like I’m inhaling lakes and forests, or the way everything is green green when we drive from the airport under blue sky dotted with tiny clouds, the sun shining down on my from the side window and the air bright in my lungs.

I feel like this is the thing I will never remember, and always be taken back by. I can see it, the type of life I want, filled with travelling and differences, and the way I always forget until I’m welcomed home, like the way I was welcomed home today while walking through the forest, the rain drawing tears on my cheeks like a sacrifice, like a purification, like a reminder that you’re here and you’re tiny, these forests knew you before and will bloom for many afters.
It’s a weird thing to have, such a big home.

(And I’m happy now, curled up and warm under white sheets, with the misty and dark autumn night outside. It’s different, jumping into autumn like this, because I like time to long for things, like eating chocolate and savouring each tiny bit, but now I’ve mashed it into my mouth and life is big, grander, great and waiting for me outside the door.) Goodnight.

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2016.01.01 Message to Myself

Posted on by under notes
Stop being scared. Stop that subconscious second guessing when you freeze and walk around and just let your thoughts crawl around like ants but never becoming something. Stop being indecisive because you’re not at a creative peak. You don’t feel it. Sit down. Do it anyway. Remember this, remember this, even though I know you won’t, even though I know I’ll have to write it again, a hundred times a hundred ways, all through life reminding you of what you know, repeating what’s been said, don’t you know it’s all we are? Don’t you know it’s all we do? So if you choose, and get to do so, so if you create and corrupt and empty your veins and pour
     then you’re one of those repeaters. Say it until you listen. Say it until the world listens. And then say it again.

You Will Get What You Want

Posted on by under Longer thoughts

And you can call that karma or a result of good goal setting or the grace of God, but that desire inside will claw at you until it gets out, you will fail and fall but the itch in your guts won’t stop and so you’ll continue.

The problem is that you have to really want it. Do you want that body more than you want a relaxed day in from of the computer? Do you want to write or do you just want something written to brag about? Do you actually want to be successful or do you just want the money that follows? Humans are passionate creatures, and we pour water to build our waves of success until they become uncontrollable and break and drag you with them, but you have to get there. You have to know that you will let go of it, but then you will come back, because you have no choice. You will get what you really want, you will get results in whatever it is that your inner being can’t stop doing, can’t stop being.

All we do is gain or lose control

Posted on by under Longer thoughts

I wish I could lose control.

Splash colours until people cry by looking at them,

turn myself inside out and wipe my 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.