Perfect world.
Perfect vacation.
Perfect Italy.
Perfect glam.
Perfect midsummer.
Perfect guitar.
Perfect sun.
Perfect rain.
Perfect job.
Perfect smile.
Perfect flowers.
Perfect food.
Perfect home.
Perfect day.
Perfect touch.
Perfect heart.
Perfect now.
Junkie.
That’s what she is.
A junkie.
Constantly seeking that next fix.
Today she got it.
The sweet sensation rushing through her veins.
The bitter taste afterwards.
The mixed feeling in your stomach.
The pain and the painkiller all at once.
It’s amasing how something that hurts so much
is so addictive.
How something so amasing
can be so damaging.
How something so damaging
can make you so happy.
How something so happy
can make you so sad.
This time,
it had been awhile since her last fix.
The abstinence had been amasingly easy on her,
and the encounter was odd this time.
Still sweet,
but trying this time.
Slightly off balance.
Perhaps the need for this toxin,
is slowly leaving her system.
Albeit she doubts it.
When the poison is a person,
there is no detoxication.
The man on the street, or; we’re all humans, aren’t we?!
There was a man on the street the other day that caught her attention.
She was walking through the city with her aching head,
tired from days past,
on her way through the boiling streets,
through the masses of people rushing to be somewhere they were not.
And there he was.
Outside a betting shop.
Lying on the pavement beneath a gigant green poster telling all of us we could win millions and millions if we played the lottery this weekend.
He was asleep.
Sound asleep.
He had the face of a babys untroubled look as it sleeps on its mothers sholder.
Happily asleep.
Unaware of the world around him.
He was wearing an old old brown costume.
Worn out tweed, or something of a kind.
He was dirty,
as an homeless man usually is,
and yet he was very tidy.
Neat.
Even his hair and 7 day beard was as tidy as it possibly could be during the circumstances.
The only thing that destroyed his neatness
was his bright pink flip flops.
Her heart warmed as she saw him sleeping.
So untroubled by the world spinningn around him.
So peaceful.
That was at first glance.
But then,
as she stood there for a moment.
Observing.
Her heart started to scream once more
as noone showed the man any respect.
Instead of walking around him,
letting him sleep.
People walked over him,
litterally over him,
to get inte the bookmakers.
Betting money on stupid wagers instead of giving them to charity.
Or whatever that is somewhat more sane than paying for nothing.
But really people can wager all they want, that’s not what upset her.
It was the fact that they didn’t even bother to look at the man as the stumbled over him.
He wasn’t there to them.
Noone stopped to think, to reflect as they rushed in to place their money.
Noone saw him.
All they could see was the gigant green sign behind him.
And she thought about the parolls of “we’re all humans”, “we’re all equal”, “we’re all the same”, “we’re all worth alike”.
So much bullshit!
So much pretty words!
How can we look ourselves in the eyes when we’re all such hypocrites!!!
How can we say all those things,
and then not see?
Just walk straight over someone and not see?
And not even bother to look?
She’s ashamed.
Deeply ashamed of what’s become of us.
And she thinks to herself;
Yes, we’re all undoubtably humans.
But I doubt we’re human anylonger…
No – it was a long time since we were.
Post Panic.
The day after a panic-attack is rather odd.
The entire world seems off,
and the light shines with a slightly different shade.
As you wake up
your body is completley exhausted from the strain,
your eyes sore from tears.
Sometimes you’re empty.
Washed out.
But mostly you readjust your eyes,
and as you rise you feel IT wallowing inside you.
You spend the morning with a head-ache.
With the sad melancholy of someone who’s given in.
As you ponder about it,
you start to get worked up
and the sadness goes from unbearable pain to fury.
You feel endlessly greatful towards the ones who tried to wipe away the tears and hold you with words as your body shook uncontrollably from the sobs, as you rocked back and forth, back and forth.
You feel a growing anger and disdain towards the one that belittled you.
But mostly you feel disappointed.
As the day grows longer, so does the anger.
You start to cry as your neighbour start playing hiphop at top volume with every window in the flat open during the one single hour you got sun on your balcony.
You’re maddened at your silent phone.
But as you speak to your father about nothing at all,
you feel better inside.
As the day turns into a warm evening what’s left of yesterday is a feeling of annoyment, disappointment, emptiness, a trace of melancholy
and the notion of something moving inside,
something that’s been left,
something that wants out.
You lean back and let out a tired sigh,
wondering what’s worth the effort.
Still staring at your silent phone.
As the walls come tumbling down.
So many things to say.
So many things that has happened of late.
So many laughters.
So many sunbeams.
So many flowers.
And yet.
The broken queen finds herself in tears yet again.
She knows not how it began.
She knows not exactly why.
She only knows that a fountain ran up during her way home.
How do you explain what ails you?
How do you put an aching soul into words?
Life caught up with her. This is what she saw:
Misfitness. Dust. Noises. Lackness of nature. Claustrofobia. Unableness to breathe. Lonliness. Hunger. Anxiety. Unloving. Bad health. Stress. Ungratefulness. Lack of compassion. Disgrace. Worries. A future of nothing. Darkness. Sounds. Sounds. Sounds. Ringing ears and screaming silence. Dead birds and bumblebees. Pain and distress. Destruction and brimstone.
And yet she knows it could be so much better.
So much more.
But the question she keeps repeating in her head is:
Is it worth it?
Too many things add up to the queens current state of mind.
Too many to run through.
She called her best friend.
Made her calmer.
Made her sobbing stop.
Then someone she cares too much for called and made her calmness disappear.
Simple really.
By not listening.
By saying “I have no sympathy for that” before she’d been able to explain.
By never taking the things that matters to her seriously.
She knows he does not realise how much it hurts her.
But it still does.
He hung up,
and the queen cracked open again.
She spoke to another friend.
And the pain eased,
only by knowing people do care.
Because that’s probably the worst…
- amongst all the stress from what she’s supposed to do
- amongst all the energy that the waterleak has taken, energy she does not have
- amongst the newly added hormones
- amongst the misfitness
- amongst the lack of silence and peace
- amongst the lack of love
- amongst the dust and the never ending noise
- amongst the existential crisis
- amongst the need for air
- amongst the death of her soul
…amongst all that, the worst is the loneliness.
And she is fine on her own really.
But this is a profound loneliness.
Where it does not matter how many phonecalls you make,
or people you meet,
or texts you write.
But where it is still empty as you walk through your door.
Where you run as fast as you can but the loneliness always manages to keep up.
Where you carry it with you wherever you go.
Life was suppsed to be more than this.
Life was supposed to be amazing.
She knows she should not complain,
but she can no longer handle it.
Can no longer control it.
Can no longer venture it here or in her diary.
It’s so far gone now that it boils over.
She knows she won’t get sympathy from loads of people.
But she cares not.
Her soul aches.
And no queen, dragon, ragdoll, frog or portus can help her now.
Only a rebuildning of her once glorious walls and labyrinths might.
If only she knew where to begin.
To give up.
When is it time for a person to give up?
How many nights of meaningless sentences does it take to crack a head open?
When do you accept the fact that this might not be your cup of tea?
How many hairs do you have to pull?
When do you realise that it’s not actually that hard but only you who are being daft?
She never gives in.
Never gives up.
The most stubborn of all families is her own.
Throwing in the towel is never an option.
But at the moment…
at the moment,
giving in would be such a relief.
After having spent an entire day with one lousy text.
Wasting her time with grammar she cannot possibly grasp.
Translating meaningless words into a heap of rubbish.
Is it not time to give in?
For once in her life,
shouldn’t she just let go?
The answer should be easy.
The answer should be “yes”.
And yet,
she knows that at the same time tomorrow,
she’ll be here again.
Translating and pulling her hair.
It never stops, does it?
She’s more fragile than she seems.
The patterns keep repeating themselves.
Over and over and over again.
She believes the world to be sorted in one way.
Wheras it spinns in the complete opposite direction.
She trusts the signs of life,
only to have them blown up in her face.
She knows she should be greatful.
She knows she should be happy with what she’s got.
She knows she’s so much better off than others.
She’s aware that her happy-list is longer than usual.
But all that won’t stop the endlessely dark to scorch her from within.
It won’t fill up the void of soothe the pain.
Her reason keep telling her to do one thing.
Her heart screams another.
The truth.
The truth is never easy to see.
And when it is so,
it is usually easier to ignore than to recognise.
The truth is that the truth hurts.
Sometimes is kills with it’s unmerciful, and ungrateful and painful brightness.
She’s know the truth all along,
but chosen to blindfold herself.
But now.
In the sharp newly born spring sunlight,
not even the darkest of folds can keep her from seeing.
And the truth is this:
She is nothing.
While he’s everything to her. She’s nothing. Nothing but a ragdoll to toss around with while waiting for the anxiety to stop. Nothing but some entertainment during the reboud. No one whose feelings matter enough to take into consideration while lurking her heart open with soft fingertips. No one and nothing. That is what she is.
She’s lived with the notion that love is unconditional, that you cannot and should not expect anything back as you love, because then your love has sprung from the worng fountain.
But the truth is,
you can only give so much.
And she has given and given and given.
Soon there’ll be nothing left.
What remains of her now is nothing but a stain on a colourful window.
And before she gives taht away too
- for she will -
she need this to stop.
One way or the other.
Before her selfdestructiveness drags her beneath and never lets her go.
As she stares this truth in the eye.
And as she looks around her in the butterfly spring.
She realises that her largest sorrow in life,
is that she’s never truly been loved.
Family and friends – ofcourse.
But never that deep devotion that she keeps seeing around her.
She’s never known the two-way deal.
All she knows in life,
is how to love.
That’s her purpose in a sense.
But she doubts she’ll ever experience the sensation of being loved.
And that doubt brings the most tormented lament to her being.
But the truth is,
there is naught she can do about it.
For what more can a stain on a window do,
that she hasn’t done already?
Balance.
Such a small word.
Insignificant at times.
But as it is lost…
and she’s lost it again.
She promised herself she never would.
Never again.
Once, was more than enough.
But still.
Here she is.
Too many straws.
Too many small seemingly insignificant things will sooner or later break even the tardiest camel.
So, here she is.
Lost.
En fallen man.
I gryningsljuset på en tågperrong.
En sliten man.
En trevlig man.
En fallen man.
Alkoholdunster står runt hans varelse som en gloria kring ett helgon.
Blicken är glansig, men förvånansvärt närvarande.
Näsan sned efter att ha knäckts alltför många gånger.
Men det är ingen fattig man.
Det är en man med ett hem. Ett liv.
Ändå är han smutsig.
Jackan är trasig.
Tänderna är gula och ruttnande.
Huden fnasig och håret flottigt.
Ovanför hans vänstra ögonbryn sitter tio små svarta stygn efter en flaska whisky och ett intimt möte med en tunnelbaneperrong.
“Whisky är farligt”, konstaterar han, “jag ska hålla mig till pilnser, annars går det illa.”
Han berättar att han är på väg till Åland.
Solen lyser igenom hans märkbart rena och hela glasögon.
Han är vänlig.
Kontaktsökande och oförarglig.
När det så är dags för henne att bege sig till tåget,
tar han henne i handen, ser henne i ögonen och säger:
“Stå för vem du är. Alltid. Det gjorde inte jag. Stå för vem du är.”
Hon ler och önskar honom en trevlig dag.
Han ler tillbaka, släpper hennes hans och reser sig från deras gemensamma bänk.
Hon ser förundrat efter honom då han försvinner ner för rulltrapporna.
Kvar har han lämnat ett outplånligt avtryck i hennes själ om människor inneboende vänlighet och välvilja. Kvar har han lämnat en tanke.
Det, och ett leende.
