this life was too much for her to carry

too much invisible weight and luggage, just kept piling up.
and when it got to much she would disappear for some time.
fly away to sort and rearrange it all. to balance the good and the bad.
always hoping the equation would come out positive.


this time it was negative. this time she flew away forever.

 

   

 

 

i do not know if there is a heaven or a second life.
but tonight i am praying that there is something out there.
something better. someone taking care of her.


Jag börjar om varenda dag.

Jeg er kald og rundt meg våkner byen forsiktig. En jente i skjørt sykler hjem, og det ser ut som om hun flyter oppover Åkebergveien.  På fjorden er det en båt som setter sitt anker. Noen ganger virker det litt godt, å flyte på et uendelig hav.  Se hvor man ender opp. Friheten til å flyte, og aldri helt vite hvor man skal ende opp. Så kan man endelig sette anker og si at; her, det her er meg. 

 

Men det er ikke sånn det er. Det er strenge skjemaer, det er tidsplaner, det er hensyn, og det er deadlines. Du kan ikke flyte for alltid, du kan ikke ankre hvor du vil. Selv når du ankrer et sted du føler deg hjemme, kommer tiden for å dra igjen. Tiden for å finne noe nytt. 

 

Tryggheten av det kjente er kreativitetens egen grav. Det er utviklingens største fartsdump. Men vi trenger en gang i blant å ankre ved det kjente, for så å finne styrke til nye eventyr. 

 

 

 

 





flashbacks to cold winterdays full of warmth


 "Snubler hjem i min første Oslo-snø med roser i kinnene og rosevin i blodårene. Snurrer. Snurrer til alt blir en virvel av små iskrystaller og lykkerus, snurrer til jeg har blitt en liten burgunderfarget karusell. Du hvisker ord jeg ikke kan forstå, mumler dem, og når jeg stopper opp får å høre nøyere etter blir du musestille. Leker med meg. Tvinner meg rundt lillefingeren. Jeg er bare enda en dukke for deg. Men en dag Oslo-by, en dag skal du og jeg danse sammen i nysnøen og le, for selv om du aldri vil bli hjem så skal du bli min venn. 

Selv om snøen i morgen har dekket mine spor. Selv om vinen har dampet bort og blitt minner stykket opp til små gassmolekyler, så holder jeg mitt løfte om nye ark, hemmeligheter bare du og jeg vet, Oslo."

Oslo, 05. desember 2010, 06:41 

 

 


Takk, lille Oslo. Takk,  for at vi har blitt venner, sånne venner man aldri glemmer. Jeg gleder meg til du igjen blir dekket av tynt silkepledd ,gleder meg til vi igjen kan leke sammen, føle sammen, skrive nye hemmeligheter sammen.  Fjorårets hemmelighet ligger ved siden av meg nå, sliten, trøtt, fin og ikke minst min. Takk, lille Oslo. 
 


the times, they are changing

we live in a climate of exhaustion and hyperactivity,

ascension and malice run down the same rivers

we are great ruins from old Rome,

submerged in the ocean of ancient philosophers

we are antiquarians of emotions,

all dealing with different eras.

 

 


stand up and walk away from our history.

the earth is round and maybe if we turn our backs to each other and travel in opposite directions we will one day meet at the intersection of the equator. more experienced, more mature and far more brave.  in order to travel together now, we do not have the years, nor the wisdom,  most importantly we do not have the courage.

 

even if our sky is the same, we do not have the same dreams. our northern star is not at the same north.





stranded.

submerged in your silence again i look for you in dark rooms, on chaotic train stations where so many pasts linger, just not ours. I seek your touch in other peoples palms and your shine in there empty stares. I look for your words  on drunken lips of lost poets, but they are not there.  you are not here, not even a bit, not even at all.

 




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the higher you fly the faster you fall, keep both feet on the ground little girl

back to the core, back to basis, where everything is simple and so pure. where joy is in a starfilled sky and happiness a familiar smile. where no passwords need to be remembered and the only username is the one given at birth.  where hope lingers inside of me like the smell of coffee in the morning. 

 

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most truths are so naked that people feel sorry for them and cover them up, at least a little bit.

 

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 sometimes reality is like a book left on the lawn in the middle of autumn. wind blows it up and tosses its pages back and forth, the pages we dare not read, afraid of what they may hide. drops fall from far above, soaking the black letters and in the end only remains a gray mixture of what once formed life. not the illusion of life, but life itself. but then, then it is too late.


 


her heart beats for you

...there lives her anxiety and her courage. Underneath that white blouse. Underneath her chest, this fragile, but practical heart is beating. There is her internal light, that has turned into a pink-like color, sparkling, flickering. A light that her blood is spreading all around her body, causing fireflies in her stomach and her cheeks to blush. She has always been able to explain everything, but those lights, they could not be explained. Perhaps that is why she is so afraid of them.

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The reason why she could not say those three words, is not because she did not feel them. But she knew that the moment she did, it would not be the start of something, it would be the end. 

she pours herself some tea, filled with suger, milk and truth.

 Drinking tea, pouring suger in it like a a desperate man who has found water in the Sahara. Wondering when everything else got so sour, that this white sand is sweetest thing in my life.

 

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a small key opens big doors.



leave me the key for a better tomorrow
leave it under the rug of past
then i can find the keyhole of happiness
and open the door that still squeaks from failure
leave me the key, leave it today
and i will find my own behind the door, tomorrow.


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one year since the heart of this small town stopped beating for a couple of days.


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Someone once told me that death is like the punctation mark at the end of a sentence.
It does not matter how long the sentence was, but how meaningful.
We are all one year older, he will forever stay nineteen.

21.03.1989 - 11.05.2008

hvil i fred


I dream of you tonight, tomorrow you?ll (i'll) be gone

The moon shining down on us, like it is trying to say something. Say that it is right that we are there, together, next to each other. If not, at least we are breathing the same air.  I look up, my finger pointing at the shiniest star on the sky.

I want that one. - I said.

Typically- he answered - You always want what i can not give you.

Then you're not for me ( onda ti nisi za mene) - i was persistent

You, my dear, are not for yourself (ti, draga moja, nisi sama za sebe) - he said smiling while putting the star in the palm of my hand.

 

And the lights came on, i woke up. No star. No you.

 

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I surrender myself into the arms of a beautiful stranger

He does not know how he without knowing a single thing about me, defined my past in two sentences.He does not know how the lights were shining so bright that  night that i had to close my eyes. Or how scared i am that one day that light will fade away. Or run away. Because someone once said: the light that burns twice as bright, burns for half as long.

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15.03.2009, the day she gave up. Poof, gone.


out of boredom i created this.

I'm the next act waiting in the wings

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Like a ghost. No strength. Just floating. Seethrough.Hearing, not listening. Speaking,not talking. Just nothing.

About the girl

Picture

Mima

Gjøvik

love all, trust few

Follow when words leave off, music beginsNorske blogger