.

hej då jävla skitår. trevligt att aldrig se dig mer igen.

hej

igen

sad truth

undersökte saken. slutsats: jag har 42 anledningar att vara ledsen.

29 september.

Införskaffat Radioheadbiljett. Kan seriöst dö lycklig. Mitt hjärta slår snabbt som tusan.

choking on the ashes of my memories.

Om inte allting vore så kroniskt. Om inte allting var en oändlig cirkel man aldrig kunde undfly. När det kommit till det stadiet då man inte längre vet vad som är upp och ner för att man vridit och vändigt på deras definition. Har ständigt försökt luska ut vad man måste göra för att skapa det där perfekta livet. Kanske måste man bara sluta tänka på vilka ingredienser som ingår. Finns väl kanske inget perfekt recept. Det är för kaotiskt och irreguljärt för att jag ska kunna tänka mig det. Kanske måste man för att bli kunna bli lycklig släppa det där kontrollbehovet. Tankar som: ”just idag ska jag skapa ett nytt liv, ska bli en ny människa”, vilket sätter för mycket press på att plötsligt göra en tvärvändning. Det måste ske i små steg, ta tag i problemen en efter en. Inte tro att man för att man har en bra dag kan förändra hela sin livssituation för att man plötsligt känner sig driftig. Kanske måste man acceptera att man inte klarar av vissa situationer, men att det är okej, och inte hata sig själv för det. Inte gå hem svinfull fem på natten och inte förakta sig själv för att man inte pratade med någon, inte var rolig och spontan och lätt att ha att göra med. Inte vara totalt besatt av att luska ut vad folk tycker om än, vad de har för perception av en. Inte spendera all energi på att försöka få folk att gilla en. Jag känner att det är det jag gör, ständig fokus på mig mig mig. Dag som natt reflekterar jag över detta, och hur man än ser det, vare sig det ligger någon logik i det eller inte, är det ändå bara ord. Här i ligger ingen praktisering. Bara tankar och formuleringar. Jag är passiv, väntar på att världen ska rädda mig, väntar på att livet ska hitta mig. Hade jag fått välja något karaktärsdrag jag hade velat ändra på hade det varit det, att ta tag i saker. Att hur dåligt allting blivit, att jag hade haft kraften att förändra det. Det har jag inte nu.


det skulle inte bli såhär.

Hur jag alltid tror att jag nått botten, men plötsligt faller längre ner. Varför kan alla så mycket, hur kan alla orka så mycket? Jag är trött, trött på min verklighet. Patetiska försök att romantisera sin sorg, koppla den till dekadens och melankoli. Bortförklara den, bortförklara sig själv. Hitta på ursäkter till varför man misslyckas. Kanske är det så att jag befinner mig vid den ålder då jag trodde att min liv skulle se annorlunda ut. Jag orkar inte dricka mer, orkar inte bli vilsen på dansgolvet, hoppas att någon lägger sina armar runt mig och viskar att allt ska bli bra. Konstant den där önskan, att om bara någon kunde se mig för den jag verkligen var. Vandrar hem och vill lägga mig ner på gatan. Orkar inte somna i min säng, vakna lika vilsen som innan. Jag önskar att jag kunde lida av normala problem, triviala saker, inte befinna mig i denna konstanta existensiella kris, där allt ifrågasätts där allt är en illusion. Tiden framför mig är ett stort svart hål. Ett ensamt liv, en ö.
Inser att problemet är mig, inte andra, jag misslyckas konstant, har ingen ork att kämpa. Känns som jag gjort det är 3 år och är emotionellt utmattad. 
 
Hoppas att relationer ska kunna bota min ensamhet, de undertryker bara den. Folk pratar och jag hör mig själv svara som någon annan. Jag hatar det, skriker till mig själv: säg något. säg något så att de gillar dig. 
 
Men jag är så fruktansvärt rädd, för livet och hur utsatt jag känner mig i det.

att sakna.

Två saker saknar jag:

Mig själv. Jag vet inte om tiden har förvrängt min bild av mig själv, men jag saknar den gamla jag. Som kunde få ryck och inspiration och vara glad och skratta och ha hopp. Nu känner jag mig för det mesta bara som en död klump som inte orkar någonting. Orkar inte pressen. Känner mig själv tyna bort och blekna utan att veta vad jag ska göra åt det. Och så...

Svensk sommar. Kanske då mestadels för att jag inte bor i Sverige längre och att jag saknar havet. Saknar min familjs sommarställe och att kunna andas ut där. Saknar festivaler och tidiga julimorgnar när man vandrar hem. Saknar kräftskiva och sand mellan tårna.
 

Chapter 1: Max

I wrote this in a frenzy last week:

Four days ago they had been sitting by the kitchen island enjoying their usual friday ritual: Thai food. After they had finished their take-away he had made coffee. It was then she had annonced she was leaving him. Evidentaly she had meet him at work, banding over their tendancy for working late nights. Late nights had apparently evolved into over nighters. His name was Alexander, and she was moving in with him. She had left him that Sunday. His record collection had diminished significantly. Today it was Thursday. He could see himself tomorrow, sitting by the kitchen island having ordered Chinese in an attempt to break what had been their tradition. Realising there were no difference between the two cuisines, the fried chicken was not enough to extinguise the memory of it all. No, that could not take place. Instead he tracked down the address book they had used before technology had replaced it. It was filled with columns of: two surnames, one lastname. Until he reached M and found Max. Max was a friend from his collage years, although he may not really be refered to as a friend anymore. Since he had gotten married their "catching-up" meetings had become less and less frecuent, until a couple of years ago when they had stopped taking place. Max was a wild card, or had been when he still knew him. It would have been the least surprising if he still were. He sat on the chair next to the hallway table taking a minor trip down "memory lane". He could recollect the life-style of never ending partying, crazy girlfriends (very hot ones though) and insane adventures. A lot of it was covered in an alcohol/drug haze, as the collage years often were. Still, he had not been on the party mill as much as Max. I mean, he had meet Cindy in the end of his second years and from there it had been a straight path towars marital status. Max had from what he could remember always ended up in trouble, avoiding worst case scenario by an inch or so. Once he had almose got kicked out of the univeristy due to a drug incident, in which the details could not be remembered. From these facts many might have drawn to the conclusion that he was an idiot or something. This was not the case, not at all. Max was smart, unusually smart actually. And the fact that he got through collage despite innumourable incidents and missed classes and exams illustrates that pretty well. Now, the attributes in which you could describe Max often contradicted themselves, which was one of the reasons to why he was so interesting. So yes, he was smart, he knew stuff about stuff he would never had heard of. Although he never displayed his extensive knowledge as to show how educated he was, he usually just used this to outwit booksmart fellow students when he felt like it. The weird thing is he had never seen Max actually read a book. Whenever a discussion would deepen and pseudo-intellectual people would gather to discuss the failure of the Bush administration or the philosophical aspect on the meaning of life, Max would roll his eyes and leave the party with an odd exit phrase. He wasn't against talking about deep issues in society, he was just against the way his pretentious classmates had to get into these sort of matters at wrong occations, as an antidote to having fun on a friday night. Also the way many of them talked to hear their own voices, never really listening to others, not drawing closer to a conclusion, just reciting already made expertise statements on the subject. The fact that they could not think for themselves, they were to heavily sedated by how smart they thought they sounded. But he could also remember Max as something of an idealist at times, shouting revolutionary ideas along the stone-walls of the univeristy campus. Just because he could he would engage in demonstrations, and not seldom winn the hearts of the participants, becoming something close to a Che Guevara of University matters. Always ready to strike with wit and intellectual irony. Fighting battles, although often without serious engagement. Because although generally very admired, as well of fellow students as of staff, he would often change opinion and direction. A characteristic which at times got him into verbal fights (and physical) and added fire to some disagreements with the faculty. But it also made him popular with the ladies, which was the main reason for getting into gravel. Multitasking worked until it didn't, due to girls habit of chatting about lovers and boyproblems amongst each other. He could recollect that at several occations Max would not leave his bed for days, not to eat, not to study. How he emptied his blatter still remained a mystery. He could never really figure out the cause of this phenomena. Sometimes the triggering factor would involve a girl, cause although he might be refered to as a cassanova, he was sensitive in many ways. Somehow he got the idea that Max actually loved these girls he played around with. Maybe not in a traditional sort of way, but as one falls in love with the beauty of things. Just that he loved several of them at the same time, which made it hard to really practise due to the lack of exclusivity he showed the girls he dated. Back to the presence, the corners of the past fading, he dials the six digit number hoping it's still in usage. 3 signals and:
- Max speaking.
- Hi, it's Tony.
There's a silence in which Tony pictures Max's facial expressions trying to connect the voice to Tony and then to Tony his best friend from collage.
- Tony, wow, Tony, really is that you? Shit, ages huh, since we last talked i mean. What are you up to these days?
- Oh not much, just getting divorced.
- Cindy and you, really?
- Yes.
- I'm sorry.
- Thanks.
They talked for a while, exchanging short phrases and polite condolences, before they decided to met and talk more. It was to take place the following day. A friday evening. And with that Tony had broken the tradition he had though he would continue with for the rest of his life.


That's about as far as I've gotten. It's not perfect and there's a lot of spelling mistakes and so on, but overall I like it.

Wednesday nights

Ser att det var ett tag sen jag skrev här. Kan inte riktigt säga varför. Har tappat mina rötter och ramlat omkring: försökt hitta mig själv antar jag. Tror inte jag har publicerat några långa texter här precis, inte på ett tag i alla fall. Här är i alla fall en jag skrev för ett tag sen. Vet inte om det är något bra, men vill dela med mig av något.

The rush of blood to the head as the alcohol makes it's way through the body. One after one his limbs goes numb. The first drink has settled in his body, lifting his mood a level. Feeling the small euphoria. There's a long time to the introvertiveness of the second, the blurryness of the third. He notices a woman staring at him from the other end of the bar. Is she flirting with him or merely observing his ways? He notices a hint of pity and turns away his head. Why is he ashamed? There's nothing wrong with nursing your nerves a wednesday evening. He deserves it, he tells himself. With this internal statement he leaves the subject, feeling that further argumentation with himself will only make truth to her eyes. No need for explaning myself, no no. Instead his eyes wanders from item to item in the bar. There's only five people there. Two in company, they look like businessmen discussing tactics for the thursday morning meeting with clients. The other two are there by themselves, including the woman with the eyes full of pity(or is she just shortsighted or something). He takes another sip of the Gin & Tonic in front of him. An old Miles Davis tune is playing in the background, echoeing between the black-painted walls. He feels insightful, like he knows something other's doesn't. The emptyness of life perhaps, no not exactly, more like the fleetingness of it. Like he's already moved past this moment, seen the future, smiling at the people not knowing what's to come. He feels as if his life has led up to this moment, as if him being here is a sum or subtraction of all his previous escapedes. 40 years and this is what he's accieved. Maybe he's exagerating, maybe he only feels that way because this is one of those self-reflecting moments, being among old jazz records, drinks, darkness and all. Him being in this bar in an October night in the beginning of the 21th century is the natural result of a serious of events. He could not for the love of his life point out or illuminate certain places in his life where he should have made a slighly different decision. He doesn't regret anything, still he regrets it all. He was handed, he chose, life had him by the balls. Forcing him forward despite his objections. So here he is, this man, not quite a failure, definitely not a success. Average in most ways, ordinary you might even say.


För tillfället är det så långt jag kommit. Skriv mycket gärna vad ni tycker.

somewhere somehow

there's no logic. utanför fönstret är allting vitt och innanför ringer tinnitusen i mina öron. klockan blir ett. trägolvet är iskallt. upprepar maniskt för mig själv: "det betyder ingenting det betyder ingenting" tills jag inte riktigt vet vad det handlar om längre. läser det sista sidorna i en bok och känns som att jag själv befinner mig där, utan vetskapen om vad det är jag ska sammanfatta eller hur. Melankolik och sorg är mitt dopamin, vem fan är jag utan det.

things aren't quite the same

I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that I'd sail the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship
Going from this land here to that
In a sailor's suit and cap
Away from the big city
Where a man can not be free
Of all of the evils of this town
And of himself, and those around
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know

more awesome than words can express





what the title says. fuck this is...(see title)

the bug who left

A creature who once was known as an termite grew extensively bigger and now lives in the distant forest of Yrk. From time to time you can hear him uttering inconclusive words to himself. This is the only way he could display his loss of friends and family. This particular termites reason for leaving his natural habitat was that he did not wan't to be a textbook example of a destuctive bug. He often went for hikes in the nearby mountains called rocks. On a particular day he was accidentaly squished by a lonesome wanderer, a man who liked to refer to himself as an animalfriend. And so that was the unfortunate death of the bug who suffered from some sort of mental disorder.

.


abba zaba

online gif creator
A duel of personalities that stretch all true realities.

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