Sozol; just words..

Just another break-up

2011-04-10T00:46:00.000-07:00

They had lived together for å year now, and those who knew them would describe them as the perfect couple. Her friends would say that he made her better, even go so far as to say that he had fixed her and made her whole again. She was in love, and after all the disappointments she had had in her life, to let herself love again was a huge statement of trust, it was a gift she gave with caution. And now he had taken this gift and returned it to her with: “I don’t love you anymore”.

The words rang clear through the living room. She looked at him sitting on the sofa, his arms folded like he prayed, his head bent down, he couldn’t even look in her eyes. A million things ran through her mind, like if she ran in to a huge flock of birds, and like birds her thoughts flew up in the air and flew away all at once, in a distance it looked like a black cloud, and she knew there would be rainy days ahead. What have I done wrong, she asked herself. Am I that difficult to live with? Am I not pretty enough, caring enough? Oh, I have given this my all, please let me fall back in to your arms, make this better, please oh please make this better. She tried to postpone the sorrow, the hit by not saying anything. Trying to fool herself that it was in fact something completely different he had said. Give me just tonight, let me have a glass of wine or six, and let us celebrate life and the good times whe had, and let me get drunk and pass out from this madness. And then you leave, then you take your things and go.

Her thoughts flew all over her mind. The angry ones: You bastard! Do you know how much I changed for you? How hard I worked on this relationship? The hurt ones: Don’t leave. I will be better, I can do better, I can be nicer, and prettier, and thinner, and happier. The sensible ones: Who owns the stuff we bought together? How do we divide all this, our home? But finally, from the back of her mind, and from the deepest root that was her, and had been her for all her life, born when her father left her, feed from the pain of her breakup with her last boyfriend, nurtured by the sorrow when her mother got sick; hardness. The brick wall to put all emotion behind, to hide them or to lock them in, whatever was necessary at the time. She felt it calming the birds; she felt it giving her strength. Give him nothing it whispered, and she knew it did not refer to their mutual belongings, but to her self-worth.

If he had looked up, he would see the change in her face, the exact moment where it would be too late for him to take this back, to mend the gap between them. There would never be a way back from this point. But he did not look up, not even when she said; “Ok” followed by; “if that’s how you fell, you better leave” She hesitated for a moment and at that second a thought as small as a hummingbird, climbed the wall and flew out of her and carried with her a tiny bit of the hurt, and before she could help herself; “Is there someone else?” He had gotten up and was walking to the door, it felt as though they stood miles apart, he turned and looked at her, his eyes filled with tears. Like he was the one who was the sad one, the hurt one. Like it was the man letting the atom-bomb drop that was sorry, and not the children who ran from it.

A bomb, yes, it felt as though he had dropped a bomb on her, out of the clear blue sky it had dropped. How could she not have noticed that he had fallen out of love? Did not his touch seem just as warm as it always had been, his kisses not as friendly, loving, his smile did it not reach his eyes? Yes, he had been tired, and worked a lot lately, but everyone got tired once in a while, every couple had rough patches and fights. One is not supposed to be afraid of someone leaving every time one disagrees?! This is insane, she thought. Her breath grew shallow, and she knew she was going to break down at any time, the wall did not hold, not for this tsunami, not for these emotions so strong, not for her loving him still.

Finally; “No, there is no one else”, his voice flat. He stood there looking at her, waiting for her to say something, anything, but in her mind she prayed; leave, leave now; I can’t hold this is in no more… She trembled under the restraint of holding her tears. He sighed, and turned and was out the door in a heartbeat. She ran to the door and locked it, and as the lock kicked in to place she fell to the floor, and broke once more.

Writing to music #1

2011-04-03T06:51:00.000-07:00

When I find myself hungry for words, but with no stories in my mind to jot down on paper, I find it helpful to turn on the radio and listen to music on my favorite radio station, and then just write the first thing that pops into my head, as I listen to the lyrics of various songs. Often it is music I don't like, or normally listen to, but that makes it even better, 'cause then I have no pretences. I usually do about five song, and try to keep the trail of though coherent. Sometimes it becomes just rubbish, other times it is something to build on for a short story and such, but it always leaves me with a feeling of contentment, I have fed the hunger.

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The phone in my hand, feels like a brick stone, a heavy burden I cannot throw away. Though I should. Throw it through a glass window; see it all go to pieces. Stop calling me. Every time I turn around they are there. I won’t answer when they call because I can’t think anymore. This is terror, people always wanting a word, always knowing where you are and what you are doing. How dependent we humans have become.

Telephone- Lady Gaga

I am searching for new things, ‘because I have fallen for all the temptation of this futuristic world. I don’t know what or where it all went wrong, but somehow I have gotten so far away from who I am, that I am scared I can’t find my way back. I miss standing heart to heart and being real with each other. Not texting, not tweeting, not “liking your status” on Facebook. I don’t want this digital social connection no more, I want reality. The real world. We are blinded by all this technical wonders, and we need to be real, we need the warmth of the touch to stay human.

Blinded by the dark – The pusher

I’m dying for the company of something I can touch. Not a friendly e-mail or tweet, but a real handshake or a hug. I can’t take any more of this digital realness we have crated. I hate even the music which is auto tuned so much it sound like robots singing, or pictures photo shopped out of this world. What it is it with this day in age, where nothing is real? Where nothing is allowed to be real. We have to make everything seem perfect, and keep on dancing until the world ends. And since perfection is so unreal, and created, we all falter, we all feel like disappointments.

Till the world ends- Britney Spears

All it takes is the moon shining light on something we cannot bear to watch. In its murky light, maybe we will see everything clearer? That in its flawed realness a picture is actually perfect. That it is the sun shining on me and you that will only be real when we are outside in true sunlight. Like the first real warm sun hitting your face in the spring, after a long and cold winter, making freckles magically appear. That is when life is real, when it is perfect.

Wildflower –Cee Lo

Faith is so many things, but all in all it is the hands of faith which makes up life, which gives us stories. Not all is good, and maybe that’s why we flee into this unreal, made-up perfectionistic digital world. Maybe that’s why we tweet only about the good things that happen, so that we pretend that we too are perfect. I don’t think we see that in fact we just create images for ourselves and others that the grass in fact is greener on the other side. In this case, on the other side of the screen, or the keyboard. I wonder if our children would be even more detached, even more digital and cold, and less human than we are. And I’m sorry for that.

Mmm mmm mmm mmm – Crash test dummies

The wait..

2011-04-03T03:30:00.000-07:00

I wait for progress. I wait for development. And I hope, I hope so hard it hurts my heart. And every time the results are negative, I lose everything. My sanity. My breath. Hope.

It flies out of me, out of my house and it leaves me and my husband all alone in this dark, cold world. And for every time we have to pick ourselves up, put ourselves together, we lose a little bit of ourselves and our sense of belonging. We start thinking about the alternatives, pretending that there are alternatives, pretending that we will be all right. But we know we are fooling ourselves. We know, but we don’t tell. In fact we don’t even tell each other. “We will be fine”, he says to me. “As long as we have each other”, I answer him.

But will it really be enough? The black hole grows bigger and bigger and it is so filled up with despair, that it hurts my chest each time I breathe. And as my heart pounds, I feel the accusation; “all-your-fault, all-your-fault” It is me who is not working, who is not able to give him what we need, what we want. If he left me for another, she would be able to give him the world, and I… I would be all alone with just the thought of not being good enough.

I pray for miracles, ‘cause I’ve seen it happen to others. But in my mind, I fear I am not deserving enough, good enough, to receive this blessing. My husband says he has always had this feeling, that he would not father a child, and I too fear that this will be our reality. This hopelessness has taken my heart hostage, and I can’t free myself from it. I see no light in the end of the tunnel. I see only pain and disappointment.

Oh, I have never wanted anything more in my life, I see it so clearly, and still I can’t reach it. I can feel its weight in my arms when I close my eyes, but when I look down, I am holding on to nothing, not even hope.

A state of mind

2010-02-22T00:46:00.000-08:00

The pencil rests on paper, readily and sharp it stands head first

The hand grips its lead-sword tightly, in closed fist it holds firm

The arm stretches across the line-spaced landscape, straight to the top it reaches, to the beginning

The eyes rest upon the emptiness of white space, awaiting its assignment; keeping the pencils soldiers in line

The mind, closed and empty, will not mitigate the others, will not feed the hunger, will not create

And so it all rests upon white, empty canvas. An maybe yes, and maybe no, the pieces will one day connect

Monday Blues

2010-02-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

So, here we are again...
You and I
Me, surprised and worn out
With red eyes I wake
Wake to see you standing there waiting
You, again, impatient and grey
Filled with things for me to do
Hurrying me out of bed
Oh, how I hate your ever-presence
Always there when I turn around
Where do all of the other days go
I wonder
And why is it always you, Monday, who wakes me up from my dreams..

2009-12-22T06:30:00.000-08:00

Its that time of year, the food, the gifts, the sress and hustle and bustle. Family dinners, often twice a day (!?) When did our family get so big? Driving back and forth across the city delivering gifts. Whom have I forgotten this year? Are we sending out christmas cards? Are we giving something to the plumber? Finding a dress for christmas eve, buying food, shuffeling snow, trying to get the car to start... It it too much?

This morning I lit a fire in the fireplace, and poured my morning coffee. I put on som soothing jazz and then I took in the christmas tree and placed it by the window in my livingroom. And as it warmed, the smell from the tree came towards me, and like a delicate touch it caressed me, relaxed me and remided me of christmas past, the ones in my childhood. And suddenly there was no more stress.

Merry Christmas!

#1

2009-12-08T01:59:00.000-08:00

Aftermath

2009-11-26T06:52:00.000-08:00

I’m shell-shocked. The results of my actions are starting to sink in. What am I doing with my life? Why did I do this?

As I woke this morning in my hotel room, this unfamiliar space, it took about a minute to recall the previous day. And as it ran through my mind like a movie reel, I got this feeling like I was watching a car accident, one I was unable to prevent. It seemed as though yesterday was lived by a totally different person, like my body had played host to an alien being. Certainly all its actions was quite unfamiliar to me.

I got up and took a shower, feeling numb and cold, the steaming hot water was much needed to clear my mind. I tried my hardest not to think further than shower – rinse –repeat, fearing it would call forth a highly unwelcome panic-attack. Toweling myself dry with stone hard hotel-towels with one hand and picking out clothes of my bag with another, I multitasked as much as I could to try focusing on anything but my pounding hart. But as I packed my bag to go out to get breakfast, I could not help looking at my mobile, and the 37 missed called that reminded me of what I had left.

Come to think of it, ordering that espresso, will probably not help my nerves. But I desperately need the caffeine, feeling worn out after that huge breakfast I just had. Nothing wrong with my appetite I remind myself and smile as if that is the upside to outweigh all of this. But it is actually a comforting feeling, this fullness, that I so rarely allow myself. And, come to think of it, it is actually not a bad feeling to sit her with my espresso, looking at the walls surrounding the Vatican and having no place to be. Nobody even knows me here. And I know no one. I don’t even know my day, the week or the restof year, since the path I was on have been so abrubtly ended, and a new path lies undicovered ahead of me.

I only have right now, this moment, and this moment fills me with a sense of satisfaction. A huge sense of well being. Like I have been in a race, and this is the goal, that I am now allowed to rest. The feeling of content rolls over me and makes me think of the desert after a rainstorm, that first morning cigarette and the pleasant feeling after sex. Could I have ever guessed how god it would feel to take one self out of the rat race, and if I did would I have done it sooner?

I put my feet up on the chair across from me, and turn my face to the sun, and contemplate about ordering another espresso.

An impulse

2009-11-25T06:24:00.001-08:00

I am many things. I am strong, creative, social, stubborn, and efficient. I am a daughter and a sister, an aunt and a grandchild. I am 28 years old, single, sometimes lonely and a bit fed up. But one thing I am not, is impulsive. If one would ask around, ask my friends and family, for one word to describe me, I bet you a million bucks that the word “impulsive” would never get mentioned. I can’t help it; I don’t like not being in control, taking chances or risks. What if it hurts me? What if it breaks me? I always keep my eye on the ball, always thinking of what I have to lose, not what I can gain from a little impulsiveness in my life.

Yet… yet I now find myself standing in the middle of the street in Rome. Suitcase in hand. Trying to find a nice place to stay. For how long, I don’t know. I don’t even know why. When I woke today I could never have anticipated the outcome of this day. But now I am here, in a foreign country, were I have never been before. I quit my job. I left my apartment. I called mom and said goodbye and at the airport I decided to take the first plane to anywhere. And anywhere, faith would have it, was Rome.

This is truly the first day of the rest of my life.

Dreams

2009-10-26T02:19:00.000-07:00

It’s that kind of dream that keeps running in and out of your head all day, but fades a little bit every time. A detail lost each time you try to recall it and wonder about the meaning of it. At the end of the day most of the dream is lost and all you have left is how it made you feel; scared, or happy or sad, maybe in love or burning with hate, anguish or victory. And you ask yourself why your subconscious pulled out of its hat this particular dream and why it wanted you to feel like this.

It is ten o’clock in the morning and I can still taste my dream as it lingers, like mist before my eyes, like a movie shown over and over again. At the tip of my tongue it tastes sweet, but becomes somewhat bitter the more I taste it. The warm, swelling feeling of love is replaced by wonder. Why did I dream this? Does my subconscious feel the need to mock me with what I can’t have? Or is it telling me to be patient, it will come?

I still feel its weight in my arms as I reach for it.

Wallpaper

2009-10-20T05:26:00.000-07:00

She was wallpaper. Or so she imagined. At every party or out to dinner with her friends she would be the one blending in to the background, merging with grey and becoming invisible. Unnoticed. A stranger or two would perhaps walk by , but without looking in her direction they would pass and go on being merely strangers. Like ships passing in the night. Her friends on the other hand would hook up, for a night or two, or for more long term relationships. And they would fall out of this world of ones and zeroes and become twosomes, the some ones. And yet she was still a no one in the background. No matter how few people she went out with she never got noticed. And soon she did not go out at all. She was wallpaper.

She had evolved and gotten used to being this shade of grey, like asphalt. She understood that by accepting who she was, she was surely amplifying her own social status, or lack thereof. Even worse, her hole person was affected by this; always with her head held down, letting her hair cover her face, always dressing in grey or black, the urban jungle camouflage, moving alongside the walls from corner to corner. Sometimes days would pass without her talking to anyone. Scared of losing her mind she would talk to her cat just to recall how to have a conversation, even just a monologue, how to relate to another living, breathing thing. Sadly she had realized that talking to a cat would mean that she had already lost her mind.

It was the loneliest of days; Sunday, and in spite of a chilling winter breeze she went out to buy the newspaper, just to see people. Just to talk to the man in the newspaper kiosk, even if he would not even look up from his work, or at all see her, not really, even if all he would say to her was; “That will be one-twenty”, and she would give him the money and take the newspaper and bid him farewell. Even if that was all, those crumbs were more than she had gotten all week.

On her way back, making her way through the people standing in queue outside the theater, not seeing her, not making way for her to pass, her eye caught a glimpse of steel blue eyes. A tall, handsome man stood out from all the rest with his beautiful eyes as blue as ice, yet warm looking. He caught her eye not because he was beautiful but because he literally caught her eye. Their eyes locked for a second, what felt like eternity and he saw. He saw her. She had stopped walking and stood frozen in his gaze. The masses flowed around them like seaweed under thundering waves, back and forth, but she stood, like a pillar of salt, firm and forceful.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat, a second, as the man broke contact ad stepped into a waiting cab. As he drove passed her, surely forever lost, she was drowning in a clash of contradicting emotions. Fear, adrenaline, excitement, joy and loneliness. Everything pounded at once through her body and mind, from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head. Like bulls in Pamplona pounding deathly through the streets it charged through her soul. With unease she took a faulty step, shuttered and with haste she walked home and locked the door behind her, suddenly feeling like the only person in the whole, wide world.

Weeks would pass, but the memory of being noticed left a trace of a smile on her face. A crocked smile like she was remembering something funny. At least that was what people who noticed her thought. They would see this ethereal being in a black winter coat and a red scarf, her hair in brown waves falling down her back, and her brown almond eyes seeing passed them and beyond to something too far away for them to grasp.

Her eyes kept searching her surroundings everywhere she went. Cafes, restaurants, shops, the sidewalk, the park, and back to the theater. Ignoring the interested glances from every other man, she had only eyes for the one she had seen weeks before. Like a drug ebbing out of her system she got more and more desperate for a new meet.

And then suddenly. On the busy sidewalk swarming with its grey masses of nobodies, she saw him. He was walking towards her, with what she perceived as determination in his steps. His eyes, oh, how she had missed his eyes! Her hart beat heavily with anticipation as she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, walking towards him. He looked straight at her, ignoring everybody else, bumping shoulders with them every two steps, but never loosing his way.
As they closed distance, her cheeks turned red with embarrassment over how desperate she had longed for him. Longed for him to rest his eyes upon her soul again. To see her, really see her, helping her to step out of the shadows. Guiding her to wrestle loose from the wall, limb from limb, and becoming visible.

A tapping sound caught her attention. One-two-tap, one-two-tap. People were moving out of the way from him who had her hart, and their distance closed in. His icy blue eyes were a mere arms length away when she, as their eye contact broke, noticed the source of the tapping-sound. And as the earth shattered in a million pieces he walked passed her with a white stick held in his right hand tapping the asphalt every two step.

With a one-two-tap she was wallpaper again.

One step for mankind?

2009-10-05T05:48:00.000-07:00

It has been on my mind all weekend. It has made me angry and frustrated, sad and afraid every time I have allowed the thought to creep up from the back of my mind and forward to my consciousness. I just can’t shake it, and maybe I’m not supposed to. I am after all human.

I read in the paper this Saturday about a thirty year old woman being raped by three men seen fleeing from their crime. I am sad to say that in my country, which allegedly is the best country in the world to live in according to the UN, assault and rape has become a common crime happening way to often for comfort.

Rape is a violation of body, privacy, freedom, mind and soul. It is taking something from another person using violence, scarring them for life. I get a lump in my throat just by thinking about it. It is, I believe, the worst thing anyone can do to another person. And to do this, in stripping this victim of all that is holy and tearing down their safe world and leaving them with nothing but fear, in a body they no longer own for themselves, you would have to be a monster. A rapist must be without conscience and humanity. How is it even possible to do this to someone? And when it is done, how can one live with himself?

In the cases that we have seen in media this last year it has too often been reported that there have been two, three or even four rapists in one assault. My mind keeps going back to this summer, when a girl, twenty years or so, got assaulted and raped in her own home, by two men. And this other girl, barely eighteen gets pulled from the road and into a van with four men. What monsters, what filthy cowards! What awful creature who thinks it can do this to another human being. Grown up men who rape a defenseless girl in an act of misplaced domination. Don’t they, themselves, have mothers? Sisters? Daughters? A hart?!

I hope they have nightmares of the victim screaming, I hope they see her eyes every time they close their own. I hope they are tormented every day for the rest of their life, like she surely is.

The punishment for said crime is ridiculous! It underestimates the worth of a girl, of her life and her freedom, her peace of mind. She is ruined for life, and IF the rapist get caught (90% of all rapes are not reported), and IF he gets convicted (the police dismissed eight out of ten cases), he is sentenced for just a few years in prison even though the law opens for a sentence up to ten years (twenty one years if there are more than one rapist). The punishment for the victim is harder and longer than that for the rapist! The victim’s punishment is for life! They claim that in my country there is gender equality. But if that were true, I imagine the punishment for rape would be much harder.

I wish for a superhero. I imagine him, cape and all, going out into the night, saving my sisters and punishing the evil. I wish for humanity to grow in our cold society and for us, everyone, to take to the streets in protest of what is happing. Not just for the victims in my country (eight - to sixteen thousand every year) but all over the world. For all the women, men and children who have been robbed of their self-worth and left in shame, and for their loved ones picking up the pieces. A march against rapists who take, with no moral, something they have no right to take. Who do it hiding in the night, in cars waiting, at war using it as a weapon, in pairs of two and three, like cowards, like beats of man. Like the roaches they have become, I want them to feel not even worthy to be crushed under our shoes. How can we allow this to continue? To read about it and not care enough, to know and yet ignore the frustration and hate, the anger and the fear.

My street is unsafe for me to walk in at night. I hate the men who made it like this and the system who allowed it to continue. And I hate us for not rising up against it. For this I am sorry I am only one..

In a heartbeat

2009-09-29T03:53:00.000-07:00

Old Mrs. Holden was the neighborhood watch out. To the neighbors, most days only seen as a head with peering eyes in the window of the yellow house at the end of the road. All day she would spend looking out the window, a cup of tea in hand. Watching out for strangers, making sure the neighbors’ grandchild didn’t kick his football in to her roses or anyone littering on her property and noting the coming and goings of everyone who set foot in to her street. From the time the sun rose until it set she would sit in the window watching the neighbors living their lives. The seasons were changing as time passed before her very eyes. Like sand it slid by her, through her fingers. But although time seemed ever flowing, her own life, on the other hand, had come to an abrupt halt when her beloved husband passed away.

One morning, after fifty-two years of companionship, her husband Dan, had died. She remembers nudging him as she got out of bed and calling back at him that today it would be eggs and bacon for breakfast. She did not think much of it when he didn’t answer back. All the years they had been married, she had learned not to bother him too much before he had had his first cigarette of the day. But the rest of the time he was the warmest, most loving husband, brother and father anyone could wish for. Mrs. Holden made the breakfast, got the paper and poured the coffee before she called on Dan again. The silence that answered back made her hart skip a beat, her lungs locking the air inside. In some way she imagined already knowing, and as she ran upstairs as fast as her bad knees would carry her, she had begun sobbing loudly.

What followed passed as in a daze. Dan lying pale in bed, his eyes looking past her and beyond to another world, to an angel calling his name, or maybe to death as it came to take him. The ambulance, the doctors, her daughter and her son-in-law. The funeral. It passed by as if she was watching it on TV, not really being involved in any way, unsure that her hart would ever start beating again after it had stopped that dreadful Sunday morning. Not actually caring for it to do so.

She suddenly found herself alone in a dark, empty house, sleeping on the couch because she was afraid of the big, empty bed, staying inside all day scared of the world that had gone from warm, safe and familiar, to cold and scary and big. Like it was rotting before her eyes the world grew even darker as its colour, its allure, withered. But most of all, Mrs. Holden was waiting; waiting for death to come take her to Dan, take her home. She was full, as if life had been this huge meal in which she had eaten greedily, but now suddenly was felling full up. And though the dinner-party went on, she had pushed her chair from the table, risen, and was waiting impatiently under the green, glowing exit-sign.

From the moment she had met Dan, properly introduced as a son of a friend of her aunt, she had openly put her hart in his hands. Unheard of at it was in those days, she had cast coquetry aside, not willing to waste time fulfilling her destiny as she so clearly saw it; becoming Dan’s wife. Marriage followed a few months later and as pearls on a string, predictable and quite ordinary, house and children, even a picket fence, followed in its natural order. But as ordinary as their life seemed to be, their love was nothing more than extraordinary. It was that kind of love that made love-songs great, and novels read by thousands. Dan was her lover and her life partner and life did not, could not, go on without him.

March 22nd started out as any other day, and they all started the same way nowadays. She got up, put on Dan’s blue robe and inhaled its aroma. It had been several months since the funeral, and his smell was all gone from this woolly piece of garment. She reminded herself to get another piece of his clothing from the hamper, fearing that she would forget how Dan had smelled. Or worse, forget him all together. Her daily, monotonous routine started with a quick trip to the bathroom and like a robot she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, careful not to look in the mirror, scared of the old woman with the empty eyes that would look back at her. Next it was the kitchen, making herself the usual cup of tea with one sugar and a drop of milk and a piece of bread with cottage cheese. She put that and today’s newspaper on a tray and carried it to the small mahogany table by the window. She sat down just in time to see Jenny Leman kiss her husband, Thomas, goodbye. Her eyes instantly started to water up by the very sight of this familiar sign of affection, so she turned her head to the right awaiting young Robert taking his dog for a walk before school, always precise. What a precious boy, Mrs. Holden thought to herself, taking a sip of her tea and looking down the road for the boy.

What she saw made her hart rush to her throat, the porcelain cup sliding form her fingers and shattering at her feet. In Briarsons garden, right by the big oak tree, stood Death. His black coat blowing in the wind, his reap hook by his side and his dark hooded head facing her house, her window. And Mrs. Holden instantly knew that Death had finally come for her too. He was waiting for her, and now she could go be with Dan. Her feelings was those of relief, and calm, welcoming the thought that it would be over soon, that she and Don would be together again. Her hart finally made its presence clear as it started beating feverish. If death came for her now, she had so much to organize!

She had to clean the house, so it would look presentable for when they found her. And she too needed to get cleaned up, she suddenly realized. Would she have time to go to the hairdresser, she wondered. Her hair was a mess, looking, she imagined, like an abandoned bird nest. Maybe she could also buy a new dress for the funeral? And what about all Dan’s things? She needed to give it away to charity. She felt a little embarrassed that she hadn’t mustered the strength to do that yet. Certainly Death would grant her time to call her daughter, which whom she hadn’t spoke n with since the funeral. She needed desperately to apologize for not being there for her daughter, for not remembering that her daughter had lost a father and, to some extent, also a mother.

Would she have time for a quick visit, and maybe see her grandson one more time? The boy must have grown so much since the last time she saw him. When was that?, she tried to recall. He had Dan’s eyes and the dimple on his right cheek he got from her. He was five now, and already a big boy. She suddenly realized how much she had missed holding him and telling him stories. She missed the smell of his soft skin, lemon and milk, and his chubby hands holding on to her old, frail fingers.

Oh, but death would give her time to do all this?! And to go see a lawyer, off course. She needed to draw up her last will and make sure that her old friend Julia got the green emerald necklace she had always envied. Come to think of it, she had not spoken to Julia since Dan’s funeral. Avoiding even her best friend, she had pulled the plug on her phone, and hid behind locked doors whenever, if ever, anyone should find their way up her driveway. I hope everything is well with Julie, Mrs. Holden thought to herself, remembering how frail Julia had looked the last time they saw each other.

She stood up and knocked on the window, calling attention to herself, signalling to the hooded figure outside, with a finger tapping her watch, that she needed time, more time. Could he come back tomorrow maybe? Or next week? Come to think of it, one more Christmas with the family would be nice, and she and Julie had always talked about taking a photography-class one summer in Paris. Could your reason with death, she asked herself.

She kept knocking on the window, but Death did not move. He doesn’t understand my signals, Mrs. Holden thought. I must go talk to him. She stepped over the broken pieces of her tea cup and walked quickly to the hallway. Hastily she put on her grey slippers and stepped out as the early morning sun rose higher in the sky, its light caressing her face. In her mind, as she hastily walked down the sidewalk towards Death, she decided that she would just explain to him that although she had waited and prayed for him to come take her, she had just a few tiny things she needed to do before she went. A few days she wanted to live life again. Just a few. Maybe a year or two. Surely Death would be reasonable?

Her steps had slowed, her mind wandered and when the neighbour’s dog jumped towards her on the other side of the fence, barking aggressively, it gave her a sudden start and she leaped backwards. Her left slipper slid of her foot as she lost her footing and fell into the road, just as Mr. Collins backed his big truck hastily out of his driveway. Always late for work his reckless driving made him a menace everyone kept an eye out for. She felt a sharp pain as the truck hit her at full speed and threw her back against the fence and on to the sidewalk.

As she lied on the pavement, her life bleeding out of her, her hart fighting for one more second, one more breath, she mustered a last effort and turned her head towards the place Death had stood earlier. The question was written in her eyes; why hadn’t he given her more time? What she saw erased the question mark burning in her eyes, and replaced it with astonishment. Were Death had stood, now hanged a big black canvas, caught in the branches of the old oak tree, half hidden by the butting spring leaves. As the wind rose, it caught hold of the canvas and Mrs. Holden saw Death reappear as she had seen it from her window earlier.

Mrs. Holden’s hart had finally stopped. Her blood coloured the black pavement red as it folded our around her body like angel wings. Her last thought had been one of regret. Regret for the months spent by the window, watching as life went on and she did not. Now, in an instant it had all changed, and Mrs Holden had gotten what she had prayed for, just in time to realise that she didn’t want it at all. A heavy breeze came and took hold of the canvas, freed it from the branches' grasp and flew it away, far far away.

Muse in a box

2009-09-24T03:25:00.000-07:00

A little brass bell rings as I push the door open, alarming the shopkeeper of my arrival. He turns from the shelves and smiles at me. He is tall and thin with dark, black hair, and brown eyes. I notice he has a warm smile, and he reminds me somewhat of a librarian. His soft voice fills the small space as he greets me with a heartily “Hello”, followed by the usual, “May I help you?” I meet his smile, and with a quick glance around onto the many shelves, I nod, realizing I will never find what I am looking for on my own. He gestures at the counter and we both move towards it. As he walks behind it, putting the old wood and glass bureau that serves at a counter between us, he asks, “Are you looking for something special?” I answer honestly that I don’t know what I want, what I need.

In my mind I add that this was an impulse, suddenly seeing the shop where I have never noticed a shop before, squeezed in between a pharmacy and a hairdresser. And the sign, in bold antique-looking letters, reading “Inspiration”, found my attention. And inspiration is just what I need, I thought to myself. The shop, with its big, dusty, windows and brown, frail-looking wooden door instantly called to me, and welcomed me in. Going in I did not know what to expect and I was both excited and nervous.

My trail of thought is interrupted by the shopkeeper who is waiving his hands and motioning bizarre gestures while he explains, “We just got in some more inspiration yesterday which is all the rave nowadays. I can hardly keep up with the demand!” He smiles at me, his hands frozen mid-air, and clearly awaiting my not-so-enthusiastic: “And what is hot these days?” “Oh my, haven’t you noticed?”, he asks rhetorically. “Vampires, baby!” He leans forward over the counter, way across my comfort-zone and almost shouts it out, as if I was hard of hearing. He continues his tirade with his arms waving flamboyantly, “The supernatural put in natural context. Like its ordinary. Reality meets sub-reality”, he lowers his voice and adds, “It’s sensuality and it’s sexy, the danger, the biting. What is forbidden is always what we lust for.” His cheeks turn red by the very thought, and he straitens up, dusting his shirt for some imaginary dirt, clearing his throat.

“I don’t think I want to write about vampires”, I tell him. I look around for words to explain what I want, not sure what it really is. “I just..”, I begin, “I just want to write about life and love, small reflections of the world as I see it. I need inspiration to create characters and bring them to life in a short story or essay. I miss the feeling of words flowing effortlessly, and the heart pounding with haste because I know I’m creating“, my voice fades, and my eyes catches hold of his, awaiting his reply. I feel I need to add, “You see, I’m not a writer, I just do it like on a hobby-basis. To relax, to flee from the world a bit. You understand?”

His eyes light up as if turned on by the light bulb I imagine going off over his head, and he starts gesturing enthusiastically again. “I have just what you need!” He walks quickly to a small table in the middle of the room with a lot of different boxes on it. He picks up a light blue box with a thin white ribbon on it, not bigger than a jewelry box. “This one is perfect for you”, he says as he walks towards me, holding out the box carefully like he was carrying a precious gem, or a raving mad cat. Picturing just that, I smile. My eyes are locked on the box, and though I still don’t know what it contains, I already feel the need to own it. I want it. “This is inspiration for beginners”, he tells me. “It’s a bit of everything; love-stories, science-fiction, mystery and poetry, to mention a few. This is inspiration for short-stories. This is”, he adds solemnly, “inspiration for you”.

I’m instantly hooked and without thinking of what it costs, I reply, “I’ll take it!” He rings it up and hands me the box in a grey paper bag with the picture of a pen and a piece of paper on it. I take it and a bit embarrassed I ask, “How do I do it? How does it work?” He smiles at me, suddenly calm and serious. “You go home, and open the box. Make sure you are alone. And then you start writing, and inspiration will fill you with words and joy will ring clear in your heart as you write your stories of love and loss, and the world as you see it. The inspiration will roll over your mind as a tidal wave washes the shore, and brings with it the bounty of the deep sea. It will leave you as a lover leaving your bed at night, the sheets still warm from his skin and you blossoming with the sense of satisfaction and rebirth” He exhales as I hold my breath with the want for everything he just described.

I thank him for all his help and patience, and turn to walk away. As I walk out the door, he calls out at me, “Come back and see me next month! I’m getting in a supply of folklore inspiration which is all the rave in America now!”

Over and over and over again

2009-05-18T01:21:00.000-07:00

The routine is killing me. Over and over again I repeat and re-do everything. Once a day, once a month, every second month. My work has become this effortless repeat of routines. Efficient? Yes, for sure. Creative? Fun? Engaging? Hell, no.

It kills creativity. Budgets. Sales-statistics. Accounting. Black and white. All is black and white. And repetitive. I am in a roundabout, going in circles, trying to catch my tale. My mind is rotting, floating effortless above it all, not having to try, to work hard at anything no more.

I see myself as a robot in a booth. Working on the things that never end, the job that is never done. Next month it’s all the shit all over again. And again. I will someday turn to dust in front of this computer, with my pencil and calculator by my side. Is this a career? Pushing numbers from one column to another for the rest of my life?

I realize I can with 99 % certainty predict what I am doing on this exact date, two, five or ten years from now. I am slowly losing vitality, curiosity and creativity.

I do crosswords on Saturdays, thinking that my effortless job and rotting brain will lead me to senility if not challenged. And with huge disappointment I realize I am loosing word by the minute, my vocabulary is leaking synonyms by the bucket.

I need a change. I am scared of change. Terrified. Now I am best at what I do. I am on time, and don’t do mistakes and I know everything there is to know. Change will make all that go away.

I have to put my confidence on the scale and weigh it against….Against everything else. Especially, I think, against my sanity.

But for now I have to go balance the interim accounts…

Anger Management

2009-01-29T07:05:00.000-08:00

She is the tiniest person I know of. In fact, I bet I can pick her up between and put her in a thimble.

She is the most selfish, ignorant, shallow, hollow, mean person I have ever met. I hate the fact that she upsets me so. I hate that for the first time in my life, I can’t see past those small ugly feelings that reside in the dark corners, that I can’t find one (ONE!) good thing about a person.

She is the only person that makes me have to count to ten whilst speaking with her. I thought it was only in movies people did that, but one cannot fully appreciate this until one finds oneself dizzy with anger, hands shaking.

One – and you want to kill her.

Two – you decide to let her live.

Tree – you remember how the breath again.

Four – you imagine yourself hitting her

Five – you realize she will probably kick your ass. Psychopaths are unusually strong.

Six – take a step back.

Seven . Time to breathe again.

Eight – Rise above.

Nine- Be the bigger person.

Ten – Walk away…. Or slam the door in her face.

Do you love her?

2008-12-18T05:35:00.000-08:00

My knees were shaking. My mouth dry, my mind a blank. I tried again to listen to what he was telling me, but no matter how hard I listened I didn’t hear anything over the mind shattering silence in my head. I listened and there was nothing, and it drove me crazy. Time did not matter as I just stood there frozen. Then, as suddenly as the silence disappeared a question screamed in my head; “Do you love her?”

Suddenly that was the most important thing in my life. His answer. Did he love her? Like it would somehow make it better to know. To forgive though I could never forgive him. Or to leave, though I thought I would never be able to. Yet I was scared, scared that by me asking I would somehow make him love her, make him think of her in a way he hadn’t before and then realize that, yes, he did love her.

Still I whispered my question. Whimpering like a puppy afraid of being hurt by its owner. “Do you love her?” He looked at me, but I could not meet his eyes and looked at the floor, to my feet. The seconds went by as I wondered just what I wanted to hear.

A yes would send me to rock bottom in a heartbeat. I would break, my hart would shatter into pieces so small it would take me forever to glue them back together. But still, a yes would be the end of this chapter but also, in time, a beginning of a new. At rock bottom there would be only one way to move on. Upwards.

A no would be my chance to keep this going. This tango between to people so destructive that anything in its way would be destroyed. Like a hurricane this relationship was tearing me up by the roots, and blowing away everything I had built up. A no would be a prison, the final nail in the coffin for all my values. With a no I would forgive the thing I vowed I could never forgive. A no, and he would own me forever.

He drew his breath as I held mine. “ I don’t know” he answered. As always not doing as I expected, as I needed. What was I going to do with “I don’t know”? Stay and fight? Make him see, as I so clearly saw it; that it was me and no one else for him? But what would I be winning? More pain? More drama? He was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and for that I loved him. I was mad with love – literally.

But I could not live with “I don’t know”. For the first time in a long, long time I dug myself out of the hole that had become my life, the hole he had dug me. A grave for all my strength, moral and self-worth. I reached for my jacket. The room was spinning. The colors turned grey, everything turned gray. My hart pounded in my head. I put my jacket on, taking time buttoning every single button, my hands shaking. Then I took my bag and turned for the door. I needed to go home and cry and rinse myself of all of this. To be white as driven snow yet again. To live. And maybe someday, be happy again.

“Nina…” He called my name in a low voice. In my name, I heard everything. Every feeling, every thought we ever shared. Maybe he wanted to ask me to stay, maybe he wanted to say he was sorry, that it would be only me if I came back. Maybe he just wanted to say good bye. But I didn’t stay for all these words that might have come, I had already overstayed this relationship and the hollow person that was left of me would die in his arms if I did not leave at once. “Nina…” was really all I needed to hear.

-----------------------------------------------

I don’t remember much more of that night other than that I walked around all night in a daze. Tears streaming. No tears for him, but for everything he was not. But somehow I lived through, and after a while, a long while, I found myself again and greeted her happily. But sometimes, even now over five years later, I have the worst bad dreams were we are still together. I wake up shaking; turning to find my fiancé snoring heavily at my side and then thanking God it was just a nightmare.

Not Broken

2008-12-10T11:38:00.001-08:00

Don't try to fix me

I'm not broken....

Aimless Age

2008-12-10T11:20:00.000-08:00

I’ve got this haunting feeling that I am not living my life to the best of it’s potential. I recognize the fact that, not believing in any God, we have merely a given time on earth/ at life. And in times like these, as tonight, I can’t help feeling I’m not making the best of the time I got. I do understand that I am not entitled to know exactly how long I actually got on this earth, yet still I don’t make a best of it.
I am grateful that I have my health, but still I don’t make a best of it.
I’m young, but don’t make a best of it.
I am alive, and don’t make a best of it.

I am as ungrateful as everyone else in my generation. just floating away on the purposelessness that marks this day in age. They call it “Generation X”, I call it “Aimless age"

In England you can’t fall asleep on the subway without getting burned - literary! You can’t complain when kids break in to your car, they will kill you. In France the kids turn to chaos because the don’t have a cause. In Greece the street are on fire as we speak, cause a whole generation is outraged at a stray-bullet, ‘cause there is nothing else to be outraged over.

For the first time in generations, since man walked earth, the young ones have nothing to fight for. And the aimless rage is killing man, woman and child in our streets.

What does this say about us? You and me, not carrying “Molotov cocktails” but with the same sense of lack of purpose, wasting our days??

And finally, the eternal question, what is the meaning of life?
What is my meaning?
what is my life?
I’m sorry to ask; “Is it merely this? “ ( may “karma” strike down upon thee” )

I am thinking that the purpose may have gotten lost somehow between our parent- generation and ours/between God and reality/ heaven and earth/ you and me, and we are just breathing while we wait for an answer as to where to aim said purpose. How else could you explain a whole generation terrorising the streets all over the world?
Burning.
Burning down its self, its being of man, of child, of purpose and life?

Or maybe it is just this; We know, deep down, that we are killing “mother earth” and there is no way of turning back, our children will die of pollution and love is merely a mating-issue within our species ….. maybe the shades are off and the truth is to hard to bare. Maybe our generation buckles under the weight of responsibility.

Oh, give us relief, give us something else to hold on to, something shallow that will keep us in the dark,
with the the fact that there is nothing…

Nothing…

Shhh! No tremors

2008-12-02T04:08:00.000-08:00

It is all at a standstill

Life

My life

A house

And I am on the outside looking in

It is built of straw

On sandy ground

With motion

Any motion

I fear it all would fall apart

So

I keep it at a standstill

Speachless feelings

2008-12-01T01:04:00.000-08:00

An author which stories I am reading right now uses four whole books to paint a picture of true love, and she paints it oh so beautifully. She gives me heartache, makes me cry and long for more. She also makes me happy and grateful for love. Nowadays I can’t wait to get home from work to continue reading and taking another ride of the ups and downs that is love. I don’t want the story to ever end.

Still I wonder, can the picture of love be fully painted with fewer words? Or more correctly, can love ever be fully described? Personally I don’t think I have enough colors to even begin describing the ways of the heart and soul. I dimly perceive the extent of all that love is. The only thing I truly know of love is that I have found the one I lay my soul to rest with. The one who will have my heart and keep it safe until I die.

Pondering this I fell utterly dethatched from the rest of the world. Looking out my office window thinking that nobody else has time to do the same, to take time being thankful for love. The world would be a grim place without it, but too many are blind to this fact, and maybe therefore it sometimes do get lost.

I wish I could take flight out of my window and just sail away distancing myself from the triviality of everyday life. If love is a flower, everyday life is the bee seduced by its beauty and then as it settles, nurtured by it. But trying to pick the flower will make the bee fly away and maybe sting you on the way. To let love be, blossoming under the son, is the only way the bee will stay with the flower. To let love be what it is, not trying to change it is the only way to keep it on our lives, in our reach.

Or maybe it’s the other way around? Maybe life is the flower, constantly growing, facing the sun, waiting and longing for the bee to come help it fulfill its destiny, tom make it whole. Giving and receiving in nature’s companionship. Disturbing love, it will hurt you. The flower would wither as the bee flew away, as I imagine life would without love. Always longing for it back would break even the strongest person. The petals would fall to the ground as the flowers beauty faded away, the sun would set and the cold, dark winter would rise from the east. And in its freezing grasp also the bee would seize to exist. The mutual exclusiveness of it all is nature’s gift and curse.
I am lost for words. But in my pounding hart I keep it close, the thought that I must never let love go, yet keep it free and undisturbed.

The poor girl

2008-11-11T02:16:00.000-08:00

"I gave him everything" she said while looking towards the sunset.

The red sky, the blue ocean and the waves rolling and rubbing agains the shore.

"Not everything?!" he asked with emphasis on the word everything.

"I gave him my hart" she replied

The wind pushed through the trees and pulled with it a rain of red atumn leaves.

"Oh" he said, "Then you did give him everything..."

"And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."

2008-11-07T01:42:00.000-08:00

What is age? What lies in the years resting behind my eyes? What will come as I continue to age, losing my youth day by day?

I am 27 in just a couple of days. Though it is in many ways just a number at this point, it is also a point were I find it natural to look both back at the past, and forward to a guessed future, contemplating on life. Especially my own.

A friend of mine told me the other day that I had nothing to worry about. Turning older should be no threat to me since I had everything one is supposed to have at the age of 27. “You have the love of your life”, she said. “And now you two are building your home together. Soon there will be kids. You have nothing to worry about. “

It was not as much as what she said, as what she did not say. Had she something to worry about, being the same age as me, and not having these things? Does happiness and fulfillment mean nothing when measured in age? Is it only achievements that counts?

Love? Check!

Home? Check!

Work? Check!

Kids? Check!

If you check all the boxes before turning 30, you have nothing to worry about but growing old? Is that maybe the only dignified way of aging?

What about friends? Family? Music? Art? Dancing? Laughing? Living? Freedom? Self worth?

As the clock strikes and the big handles points at 27 or 30 or 25, is it time to leave the ball and glass slippers and grow up? And if you don’t, you only grow old?

It seems that my friend and I differ in our views on this point, but somehow we both think and focus on what we don’t have.
Me, I think of youth. That blissful time with no worries. I wish I knew then what I know now, and wasn’t in such a hurry to grow up, grow old. To get the house and the office job, and the pet, and the car and the man. Don’t get me wrong, I love the man to pieces, and eternally grateful that I have found him, and he me. But I still regret the things I should have done. Sometimes it feels like I never went to the ball at all.

But still I must conclude that I am happy. I am living my life as best I can. And a good night cream for my skin will maybe help the wrinkles starting to form under my eyes….

“Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.” ~Samuel Ullman

It is called civilization

2008-10-21T01:00:00.000-07:00

I am one of men. I am animal. Tamed, dressed and trained. Trained to be just another among all others. To stand in line and say “thank you” at what I pretend is faith, but what really is something prewritten by others and handed to me.

The animal that is human, the mammal, is dead inside me. Dead inside all of us. Shot down. Put to sleep by our mind. By what we refer to as "civilization." Unconscious consciousness. Instincts are no longer what drive us.

I am man. I am hollow shell and have lost the ability to feel the pleasure of instant gratification. The pleasure of reaching. Wanting. To feel the need for satisfaction of basic needs so raw and untamed it robs me of sleep at night and sense of calm at day. Hunger. Lust. Anger. It is all ignored or instantly treaded. What gnaws at my bones? What do I need, want, now that I am "civilized", without animal instinct?

I am shallow. I want to be beautiful. Maybe not beautiful as I perceive it, but as society tells me to be, to want. If I’m not, I hide in black, blending in. Being invisible. Uncomfortable in my own skin. Ashamed. Like no other animal, shame runs black through the veins of human.

I am the unfulfilled. I want for success, not for what makes me happy. I am programmed to want my success measured by everyone else and then think that this makes me happy. I should want to climb. To achieve. Never settle at second best. Never rest.

I am consumption. I want it all, and then some. I use and the throw away the rest. I consume all of the nature’s resources, and then I waste. I pollute with what is left. I am man killing mother earth. Using her. Abusing her. I am her worst creation, her black sheep. I am cockroach feeding in dark corners. Never resting. Never stopping.

I am a humble working bee. Stuck in a box watching the world turn as I work from dusk to dawn. I am enslaved, making money for another human – animal wanting more and more. I am robbed of self, and merely a drone for a queen I spit fuel on the fire that torch the blue sky and green forests.

I am rage. I am anger pulsing, fighting for faith and black gold in foregin contries. Killing long distanse so I not get blood on my hands. Killing child of men and their mothers because my enemy is coward like me and hides behind a shield of innocence. I am destroyer of happiness and life, belittleling the worth of a heartbeat. I am every bullet ever fired. I am the reaper harvesting what is not mine to take.

I am the thought that resides in the back of mankinds mind. “I think, and therefore I am” better than all other living thing. I am here to govern all of earth as I see fit. I am not grateful. Not merciful.

I am men. Beast of men.

This is my home. This is me.

2008-10-17T00:50:00.000-07:00

If the home is where the hart is and my home is for sale, do I also bid you my heart?

As the pictures of my bed and my kitchen is laid out for everyone to see, so am I for everyone to see. Even though I have removed most of my personal things, I am still there, in the walls, in every room.

The tears that I have cried for love lost is still in the pillows on the couch. The dance of joy throughout every room has left footprints on the floor. The anger and disappointment felt as everything sometimes seems so hard and hurtful, it still resides in the wall where my fist pounded out my frustration.

I am still there. In every room, I am still there.

Even if I pack my things and leave the key to someone else, it is still my home. The place were I grew into a woman. The place were I learned the hard way that not everyone is good. Even not deep down.

The place were death came to early and took my best friend away. Oh, how I will miss running my fingers over the place he died, and there, for a brief moment, feel somewhat of a connection of souls. Pulling my hand back, and feeling strong once again. So sad it is that this place, this exact spot, will be lost forever when I move away.

The rooms are filled up with all of my emotions. Alive with the memories of good and bad that is me, that made me who I am today. To leave this place, to sell it, is one of the hardest things I have ever done, and it truly feels like I will be leaving a piece of my heart behind.

But in my briefcase and in my mind I will bring along the memories of this place, and lock it in my heart forever. And every time I think back, no matter how old I get, I will se and feel this place once again.

Closing my eyes I will feel the wind from the terrace door, pulling at the curtains. I will fell the warmth from the fireplace, and the cold from the floor. I will hear the creak from the old house telling me that it is still alive with the people that resides in it. As long as we are alive, and truly live our lives, taking it in both pain and joy, the house will keep on living.

And in the bottom corner, to the right, my apartment, where I have grown up.
And moved on.

I love the smell of autumn

2008-10-06T04:51:00.000-07:00

I love the smell of autumn as it rests upon my windowsill waiting and wanting for me to let it in. And as I do so, it pours in to my house, my home, and fills me with a sense of calm as I inhale. Exhale.

Fills me with yellow, and orange and bright, burning red. Fills me with fallen leaves, naked trees and frostbitten mould. Cradles me in a felling of standstill were the heat and light of summer has passed and the cold innocence of winter is yet to come.

It smells smoky, wet and cold. It smells of earth. It smells of change and flaming October. If I could I would open all my windows and let autumn in. I would open my front door and let the wind push autumn inside. In my living room we would dance around and around with our arms held out and our face to the sky as the leaves of autumn would colour the world around us. I love the smell of autumn.

The stupid fights...

2008-09-24T06:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve taken a step back, and so has he. We are standing in the living room ten feet apart just looking at each other.

It started so harmless. Me asking him if he wanted to do something tonight. The movies? Or just go for some coffee? He answered that he was tired. And then I sighed. “Sigh!” And just like a referee had blown his whistle the match was suddenly on. “What?”, he asked. “What, what?”, I replied. “You sighed” “Yeah, I sighed” –Pause- “Am I not allowed to sigh?”
He looked at me , suddenly putting on his “game-face” as to tell me that if I wanted to go at it like that, he was game. He answered that he understood what I meant with that sigh. That he knew that now I would lash out at him for not wanting to go out tonight.

I looked back at him, letting the silence speak for me. Waiting for all the words at the back of my throat to calm down so I could say something reasonable. Something that would turn this discussion back around to pink-clouds and sunny days.

But the words wouldn’t go down. Instead I spewed out; “I haven’t lashed out all the other times you just wanted to sit on your as at home. We never do anything together anymore but eat, sleep and fuck!” I see him draw his breath at the word “fuck”. I don’t think he ever heard me curse before, and certainly not at him. I can see I have gone too far, but it’s no turning back now. He replies; “We do stuff. Just this weekend we were so busy we were hardly at home”. He seems angry, and disappointed in me. I see his fists open and close, his arms held closely to his sides. I hate to see him like this, to be the reason he get like this. I want to step forward and close the distance between us. I didn't mean what I just said. I never mean to get like this. Bit I don’t. Instead; “The apartment just gets so small sometimes. It’s like I can’t breathe” Now I hurt him. I see it in his eyes. In his beautiful blue eyes.

We are like two children throwing a ball between us. Picture it. It starts out a small ball, like a marble. In my hands. I throw it, and he catches it. But in his hands it turns into a golf-ball before he throws it back. Soon it has grown into a tennis-ball, a handball, a football and then a basketball. Constantly growing, until it gets to big to handle.

“I’m sorry I am such a disappointment” The ball drops from his hands and down to the floor with a soft “thud” Now it’s a brick stone lying dead and hard between us. He stares at it. I stare at my feet. In my mind I tell him that I love him, that he is the best thing that ever happened to me. That he is my world, my everything. Anything to make that stupid brick disappear. But out loud it sounds more like; “What do you want for dinner?”

Where has all the words gone?

2008-09-22T06:10:00.000-07:00

Where has all the words gone? I am at a standstill, watching everybody else pass me by. I have lost my words and stories. All that is left is speechlessness. Silence. I feel like I lost my best friend.

I used to mean so much about everything. I had so much to say. Things weighing heavy on my hart. Oh, how I miss that weight! Words tumbling over each other to get out my mouth, out of my mind, out of my pen or on to my keyboard. And my imagination created stories and dreams for my mind to play with, and find rest in. Where can I play now? Have my dreams left me to seek a mind of colour and imagination. A person alive with that sense of playfulness and passion that I miss?

I wonder if I have grown too old for my escapism, for fantasy. Maybe the seriousness of the world finally has weighed me down and made me just one more person in a world of persons and few individuals. If my hart is not in it, were has it gone?

My mind is numb and the music is silent. I strike a key on my piano and no music comes out. I lift my pen over my notebook and it just bleeds to death on the paper. No words. No ideas. No passion. No colour. I am grey and dead as rock.

Paper covers rock.