I never though, and I still believe, that no one ever reads what I write on this blog.
That was until a good friend of mine (hi) asked if I was OK after reading my online scribbles.
I guess it is just a way of getting thoughts out of my head.
The funny thing is, even though I believe no one actually reads this, I'm still not honest. I am still trying to impose myself as this person who I would want to be perfect. Who is happy, unique, standing strong, fighting for her believes. A person who deserves to be loved.
Or something like that.
I guess it is called the good girl syndrome. Personally I think it sound like bullshit, but when that urge to impose yourself as picture perfect, interesting, desirable, takes over, your kinda doomed anyway. And then this little thing that don't really concerns anybody else happens, and kicks you in the ass and your head spins the event into something so big that is swallows you whole and keeps your prisoned for weeks. Even though it is something quite common you let it mark you in ways not needed. You are still you, nothing remarkably has changed. I know this. I know that.
Er du med på leken må du tåle steken.
Still, you are in free fall.
I am OK. I'm not fine, but I'm OK.
I'm still alive.
I just need some time.
PS. One day I will press delete on this blog, I think.
I sent him a text, asking if he wanted to run away to Cuba with me.
"Let's take my car, baby",
My heart skipped a beat and,
as I so often do,
I closed my eyes and sent out wishes for the future.
I read something that made me cry the other day; Life is never nothing.
It might be frightening.
It might be hard.
It might be frequented by events you wished to be without.
However, it is never nothing. You are still alive.
You know that feeling?
That feeling of wanting to do something.
That feeling of wanting to get shitfaced drunk.
That feeling of wanting to run through empty streets.
The feeling of wanting to act like nothing can stop you.
Stupid dance moves.
Yesterday I went out, and ended up sitting at London Fields tube station at 9 am this morning, in yesterday's make-up and clothes, waiting for the train back to civilization, aka central London (just kidding, I secretly wish I was living out east). Getting from Dalston to Archway is no joke, I tell you. An hour later I was home, greeted by my housemate who, when I blurred our "I smell like a boy and whiskey"laughed loud and long. I laughed with her.
But you know that feeling?
That feeling of wanting to do something? It's there, haunting like a post-festival depression, or in this case a post-good-night-out-depression.
I want to be reckless.
I want to listen to this, skate the streets and meet cute british boys. I'm crushing so hard on this band:
I did snap out of it, or it nothing more, I am in the process of doing so. I need to accept that I can't control everything. I need to look at the facts. To quote artist Daughter, "If you're still breathing, you are the lucky one". I am still breathing. I am going to be OK. The fact is, this is no big deal. I can live with it, even though I can't control it.
Around me friends talk about babies, love, boyfriends, marriage, the future and I realize - I'm afraid of never having those things.
I've never been in love.
I have never been loved.
And it all strikes me as one big hit to the heart, the irrational fear of ending up alone and miserable. To having to settle at age 30 because I was never able to find the fireworks, the sparkles and the love that could conquer everything. To have found it, but then lost it. To have found it, but only for it not to be mine to take.
I am looking forward to living my life. To fall in love, to scream and fight, to make up and to cry. Boy, all those hours I'm going to spend wiping tears. I look, even though I must admit it scares me, forward to those moments. But at the same time, I just want to skip right forward to being 30, just to see if I'm not alone.
I just want to be happy.
PS: I'm only writing this because no one really read this blog anyway, right?
I said I had nothing too loose. I meant it in the best possible way. And I did. I had nothing too loose. So I went out there. I lived life. I had fun. But then the morning after came and kicked me in the ass. Although it was no big deal, I fell hard. Although it was such a common thing, I crashed. I lost control. I couldn't instantly fix it.
The rabbithole didn't lead me to wonderland, it lead me to a a dark spiral of doubt, anxiety and second guessing.
At the same time, I don't regret it.
That moment. Nothing.
It's weird, isn't it?
I just want everything to be fine again, to once more have control, or at least be able to face the fact that in this, I have no control. I guess it all leads down to that one word - love. Or more like it, the lack of it, and what the future will bring. I feel broken, and who will want a broken toy?
Ps. I'm only writing this because I know no one reads it anyway. Ironic?
You can't always control everything, especially not your body, or your mind for that matter. I need to accept that and let go. To quote Ben Howard, "keep your head up, keen your heart strong" (and your mind sane). What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger? And I'm going to come out of this stronger. Only problem is, I need to snap out of it in order to do so.
Spent the weekend in Oslo, went to 10 concerts every night, cried when I finally got to hug one of my best friends after too many months apart, introduced myself to the vocalist/guitarist of French Films with the line "Hi, I love your band", drank a lot of coffee and beer and kissed this really really cute boy. BEST WEEKEND EVER Now I'm back in Londontown, longing to be outside in the sun but finding myself behind my desk writing. Would say"YES it's only two months to summer!" (May counts as summer, right?) but then I realize that I'm going to spend my summer writing my MA. Never the less, this summer will bring at least one good festival, and a lot of dancing barefoot in the grass, even though I most likely will be stressed out. To end this post with the cheezyest quote ever; I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 22. This is what life is all about, right?
BTW, I don't blog any more. Not really. However, what I do occationally spend my time on in Tumblr; my number one go to for procrastination. So, if you're into cute boys, peter pan, love, lust and unicorns? Check out HIGH ON YOUTH.
My head is a mess. My hair is a mess and my bedroom floor? Also a mess. So far, this year has not worked out in my favor. To quote a book I read this fall, Charlotte Street; I like London, but I'm not sure if London likes me.
What I have done to this city, or how this city expresses it's dislike I'm not sure of. It might be my lack of creativity, lack of being able to get up in the morning. My lack of wanting to face the day, lack of being able to cross things off my to do list. As a MA student and wannabe magazine editor, I have found these lacks to be, well, lacks.
Or it may just be the cold, the darkness and the famous fog. I hope it is, for I really do miss my adventurous, slightly manic self - and the thrill of the big city.
I'm reading E.E Cummings and wondering about love. How someone can actually write those words, those beautiful, captivating, true words. It fascinates me, love. To me, it seems beyond that someone could actually sit down and write 'I carry your hart with me (I carry it in)'. Call me a pathetic, romantic fool, put his words, those three paragraphs, make my heart beat faster. They give me goosebumps.
I wonder what being in love must feel like. And yes, I am a pathetic, romantic fool. I know.
My toes, nose and fingertips are cold. It's the end of November, and I'm not capable of actually giving you a recap of this month so far. I'm bored, I'm doubting every decision I've ever made, I work (a lot), I freeze (a lot) and I'm dreaming of moving away from London (why I have no idea). I force myself into doing stuff that I'm not really sure that I want to do, in the hope of actually feeling something. Running, studying, eating, lifting weights, cleaning, doing what is expected, making plans. I just need to get through to November 7th. Then, I am going to smile, and actually mean it.
Secretly I'm daydreaming about this really cute boy.
You wanna know what my favorite thing about London is?
Well, apart from the bridges, the view from the 13th floor at uni (from there you can seriously see everything), the skyline outside my window and just the fact that I live in one of the world's greatest cities it is that whenever you look up, let it be day or night, you will always see an airplane. On my way to uni, or anywhere else for that matter, I tend to stop up, stair at the sky and just look. Yes, I know I must look like a dork, but I find it fascinating, the way they are flowing around up there, leaving white stripes and crossing each other unnoticed. I wonder where the people are going, and long for the day that I am going to go on adventures.
Well, here I am. Three months has passed by and I am still the hopeless romantic that I have always been. I 'm still reading Firzgerald. I'm still tublering the above pictures. I'm still listening to lovesongs. I still get butterflies every time my friends tell me about their crushes.
Every time my phone beeps I jump up, eager to see if it is the person I want it to be. Most of the time it's not. But when his name do pop up, my heart skips a beat.
I think I'm in love with love itself. It is so damn beautiful to watch, listen to and read about. Luckily for me, LOVE is the theme for the next edition of my magazine.
So, what have I been up to lately?
Well, I finished my bachelor degree, got accepted to London College of Communication (master in publishing, woho), spent my last three weeks in England getting drunk, dancing, sun bathing, eating and spending time with the people who made this year an adventure (needless to say, I cried like a baby when I left) and now I'm back in Norway, more bored than ever.
I have fallen in love with baby blue and white, wrecked my brother's car, taken up baking, bought my first cropped top and read my way through most of Fitzgerald's work.
The post-I-had-the-time-of-my-life depression is slowly letting me go and the thought of three months of Norway isn't all that bad. I just need a lot of wine and sunshine.
A friend of mine sent me this video, saying it reminded him of me. Well, thank you! Obviously the video, made by Matthew Frost, worked. I am so jealous of the life Ashley Smith have in this. This is what I daydream about. Except that my hipster will not have a beard. He will have curly hair, and maybe a mustache.
Starting a new project today. "Take a picture of what you are wearing in photoboot every day for a week, just to see how much black I actually wear." This can be fun.
Monday feels like Tuesday, and although this weekend went by without too much drama, there is always drama and those awkward moments. Seriously, what ever happened to boys and girls being just friends? Luckily my best friend comes visiting tomorrow, and with him it is going to be one drama free week. Started it all off today with ditching uni and went to the docks to eat ice cream and getting freckles in the sun. At this time a year, you just got to love England.
"Whatever happens tomorrow, we had today." One Day, incredibly annoying, but yet such a nice movie. It has a lot of making out, and that is always a good thing.
" She made you decent, and in return you made her so happy, so happy, and I will always be grateful to you for that."
Funny enough, it was by:Larm's last concert that turned out to be the greatest. Half an hour in queue, stuffed into a lavo, standing in sawdust. The clock show 01:30. I'm kinda tiered, halfway regretting coming. And then, the music hit. Words big enough to form a cult, tunes that captured the whole crowd - all of this without releasing as much as a single. It was pure magic.
Jeg drømmer om å være en poet.
En som drikker rødvin og whiskey fra store glass,
og som skriver store fine ord
som ikke alle forstår.
Jeg drømmer om å være en poet.
En poet, slik som de franske.
De som knyttet seg til sigaretter og tomme flasker på
samme måte som andre knyttet seg til mennesker.
En poet, en slik som i knutste flasker ser diamanter.
En poet, en slik som kan elske på en måte som bare
Jeg drømmer om å være en poet.
En som skriver store fine ord
som ikke alle forstår.
Men jeg er bare meg,
og jeg lager en vegg.
En vegg av redsel, tanker og frustrasjon.
Jeg drømmer, men det blir med det.
En dag skal jeg slå ned den veggen.
Da skal jeg bli poet.