Thursday, November 1


The old clock on the wall makes resounding tick-tocks all the way from the living room, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the bedroom, reminding me that time is passing, minutes come and go and I am without.

My mind is reasoning with me, I'm arguing with myself for the millionth time, but I can't put my fears away, and all this time lets me dig them out, pick them up and study them up close. The more I study, the bigger they become, until they take up all the room in this apartment, they grow in record time, from a little, shriveled seed hidden away to filling the space between all the walls.
Until they choke me.

They color my white space black. It starts with a cloud of gray that spreads like cancer, that lets me wallow in egocentric misery and self-pity. This destruction of what is beautiful always goes too far, and I poison everything I touch with it.
I can't help it. I'm trying to help it.

I know we can't always be truthful. Honesty is a double-edged sword. If you told me about the places you miss and the people you've thought of, would it make things better? Would it help anything, would it chase away the darkness that holds nothing but fear?
These things we tell people, I suppose there is some truth in it, and some lies too.
Wanting to make them feel better. Realizing there were good things that are sometimes missed. And that's okay.

Do you miss me?
I suppose no one ever replies with such honesty. Or maybe we always miss someone. Anyone. Or everyone.

Words are empty, maybe that's true. But they hold all these fears. They awaken them, bring them out from their corners and into my space.
Wishing for clean slates. Wanting to read you like an open book.
When night turns to day, I have stayed up, fighting the dark. And I think I've won again, I think it's all back inside of me, and I can keep it there for another little while. Maybe someday the cage will be time-proof.

We close our eyes for a moment, I trace your skin and imagine that no one ever felt like this before.
No one ever did. And everyone did.


I can see you so clearly sometimes, and it breaks my heart.
Your pretending, my disappointment.
I know what you tell them.
You'll never be happy, you are never happy, you want to run away.
I want the truth from you, but we probably wouldn't survive it.

I wish you could be happy. And I wish I knew you.

Monday, September 17

Monday, August 20


Ghostly, but too real. It's always a dream, but it was reality. It haunts me, and all I want is to delete, fast forward, never rewind.
I don't want to go back to that place, it disrupts my mind, it destroys my presence. But my mind won't let me have a choice.
Can I choose? How do I let go?

"It's not your fault. I'm an idiot." 

I'm okay for a while, but then those words reappear and my heart starts pounding. I start feeling sick, my cheeks burn, it has affected me for too long. It bothers me that I don't know. What's not her fault? Why are you an idiot?
I need to archive it, and start over, but I'm finding it difficult when my dreams are always the same.
Haunted by this ghost that I can't shut up, its words and images may be right.
Karma they say, it's a bitch, they say.

"No, I don't want you to hate me."

"We were fucking idiots."

Needles and pins, under, over and everywhere.
I don't know who to point at anymore, so I point at myself and curl up into a ball and let everything go over and over.
Then recurring, these dreams, the laughter, the whispers and what is dark and makes me dark.
If I knew how to quit, I would. One thing or another. I don't know how to quit any of it.

Thursday, August 9


We pretend that you've never been here before. And that I follow you into the living room, and sit down in a new spot on the sofa, because you sat down where I usually sit. Then we can pretend that you smile at me and ask if I can make some coffee. Then you turn toward the window, and try to look at the stream of people passing by.

"Where's everyone going?"

I pretend that I can't hear you, that I have to come closer. So I sit on the armrest behind you. Then I push the hair back from your face and say you have to ask again.

"Tell me a story."

 Then we pretend that I tell you the story you like so much, about the old man and his diary. About the white hair of his head, and the brown comb in the back pocket of his corduroys. I talk about all the languages ​​he learned, and where in the world he has been. I laugh at you and say that it would be easier to talk about the places he hasn't been. Then I tell you about the part where he writes that he doesn't want to anymore, because there is nothing more to see.

We pretend that you want to see his diary. So I take you into the bedroom and show you the bookcase.

Tuesday, August 7


130909 1651.

I'm waiting in vain. Two hours ago I thought you were on your way. An hour ago I thought you might be delayed.
Now I'm thinking that I'm sitting here - waiting for you - in vain. I shouldn't disregard it, you say. But now I am.
I'm thinking that I have to get out of here too. That I need to get my mind off of you, but thoughts of you will pursue me anyway. You are with me all the time now.
Maybe you think that I'm not waiting, that I have other things to do. But the truth is that there is nothing I want or have to do except wait for you. It's just so hard not knowing when you'll show up. Or if you will at all.
Most likely the latter, which makes me sad.
When we're together, you only make me happy, ecstatic and energetic, and the second I can't see you any longer, I miss you, and you make me sad when you go, and sad when you get my hopes up, when really it may only be empty words, and a slightly vague statement, which can't even be categorized as a small promise.

Maybe I'm naive. Maybe I'm in love, maybe with you, maybe with being in love, but I don't think it's the latter.
It's probably possible to be in love with two people at once, it's just hard to know who to give up love for, and why.
The easiest and most cynical approach would be to split it into pro's and con's, wouldn't it?
To count each point under each header, and sum it up into who makes you the happiest, who will take you to the nicest places in the city, and in the world, and experience them only with you; because you're you.

This is probably the last chance in a while, I think. Last chance to see if it could have been the two of us, to really be able to feel everything at once, to climax so intensely with you, and to trace your body with my fingertips.
To whisper tiny words into your ear that makes you happy, to shout so loud from the inside of our bodies that


I explode and lose my breath, and collapse into you, feel the fragments of love in every single pore on your body, feel everything so intensely and real.

But maybe I'm naive. Perhaps our time will never come; yours and mine. Or that time will never bring spring; that it'll always be winter with a cold blanket covering us, that we desperately try to melt with all our heat.
That's what we've been doing for almost two years, isn't it? Fed off each other like desperate fireflies, each tiny molecule and ion belonging to the other; a constant and losing battle none of us are willing to give up. Not yet.
There was a time I almost gave up on everything that had to do with you. I was about to throw out everything that reminded of you, throw out every word you've written for me and thought about me; and I was about to throw up.
I was about to collapse in fear that you were to disappear, and I sunk into your words, cried and clung to them.

clung to the only thread I have around my heart attached to yours.

1847. And the second I hit send, I regretted it. But it was like an obsession. You're like an obsession to my mind and my heart. It's just repetition of loss and longing, but you are everywhere, you're in every heartbeat and every cliche of every inch of my body. Now you're so close to my skin and I inhale what is left of you and it hurts, but I can't stop.
I have to get out, but I don't know how or where.

Monday, July 30

Past Life

When you know this has happened to her before.
These words, they are on repeat.
These feelings, are they really new?
These plans, are they just recycled?

The need to say it's so different, is it natural? Do we feel compelled to? Do we forget our past sins and regrets?
Do we wish, or do we know?

My heart breaks over and over. But is it really new?

Thursday, July 19


The basement is cold, and I am searching everywhere. I feel hollow. It's all so dark.
I feel like it's snowing when I open the door and look up the staircase. I don't think it is, but it's what you're sending me. Black snow.
The two of you have put your heads close together, and with lowered voices I can hear the poison coming out of you. You're laughing at me when I'm not looking.
I feel like it's my punishment for the trust I try to pretend I have in you both.
You stare down at me with dead, yet hateful eyes. Like you've built us up for this moment to arrive.
For me to break.

Then I wake up.

Tuesday, July 10


I guess it never occurred to you that you might be lucky too.
But who am I to judge. Maybe you are too good for me.

Monday, July 9

Our secrets

These secrets that we share, these truths we keep from each other.
We're born and raised like this I suppose, and from experience it keeps growing more deceitful. These stupid little secrets that come to mean so much more than they had to, or that actually meant a lot the whole time.
Perhaps would have changed the course of destination, but were kept to prevent that.
Still, those secrets are kept somewhere, by someone, sometimes by the wrong someones. And they reappear, and they haunt us, and they never let go.
All those secrets that we share. Just not with each other.

Tuesday, January 31





soft laugh -"What is it?

"Will you come back to bed?"

Sunday, January 29

Tuesday, January 17

Trigger Happy

Look me straight in the eyes
and say you do not understand
argue that there is no possibility
you'll never ever
let your words dance across my forehead
like the rain bouncing off the asphalt

see through the window, through the framework
widen your eyes, what you see out there?
break out of the window, break all ties
grab on and don't let go, don't fall
who knows what is hidden in the cave of night?

grab the cold night
hold on to the light poles
that pass over your head
disappears behind you
lights dancing up and down out of the darkness
go out and see it all illuminated by night


she thought, and trembled. Shook. It was a bit too early and too late at the same time and the sun was rising. 
Despite of that, hope wasn't. 
The food was untouched and smelled sick. Sickening. Scraping back and forth.

As a solution to the unsolved riddles, it's okay to close your eyes and act completely the opposite and quite irrational. Neat solutions, pictures on glossy paper and that was it. No words or explanations.

But perhaps there's no need for more of them, when there are already too many. Attempts, that is.
Painful attempts and sore areas. Words not thought through. Guesses to understand the actions and for what?
When you don't understand it yourself, it must be a lie?
The sun fills the rim, over the mountainside and doesn't quite reach the skies, only enough sun for her, to thaw her out again. From cold nights without introspection at all, only the usual chaos. She needs shelves. An archive of alphabetical order. Practical.
Much of the thoughts revolve around the other. Her. The Cat. The face that etched itself firmly in mind from day one and that will not let go. And fascinating words that burn holes in reasoning and let her own mouth linger in silence. Choked words. Dead, but alive. Inside her, but not out in the world with reality.

She thinks about traveling there. But she is scared of course. Perhaps she would never have been able to leave. Or maybe she was exaggerating. Maybe this is a dream she refuses to let go of. Dream thoughts, dreams actions, dream words suitable for a dream girl, but is it too much energy for nothing. Poor investment, let's say.

She realized recently that there's not enough time there. Imagine that there is actually no time at all, the Cat was the one who said there was, but was that perhaps her only lie? Constantly tried to convince of that time was there, that it would always be there, but she was wrong, wasn't she? There is no time, because time only creates more questions and additional wounds. More demands from oneself. 

Maybe the Cat does not demand anything, but doesn't she know that she takes tears and steals space from your heart? She steals time too. Sly cat, tells you what you have to make you imagine that you have it, then takes it away. Steals what you do not have. Is it possible? It is, she concludes, and lights a cigarette. Feels the need to calm her shaky hands. Poison herself, or remove the stench from the food. She is certainly empty inside, but not hungry. Never.

She could have traveled there. The cigarette reminds her of Paris. She could have traveled there too. Taken the Cat with her and smoked cigarettes barefoot at a small cafe on the Champs Elysee. Dressed in white, skin tanned. With laughter in their eyes and time. Maybe even sunshine covering the world and warm summer rain on the horizon.

The cigarette did not help the shaking. Particularly. She directed her eyes towards the window and noticed that it had become later or earlier. Her mouth was dry, but if she got up she might fall over. Balance? ZeroFailure. Not just the legs.

And if she pierced herself, would it make any difference?

Monday, January 9


Maybe you don't see me.
The same way no one really ever does. Or maybe you do.
The balance between the opposites is what makes relations complicated, like we want everyone to see, but then again if they did, then what? If they did, would they?
If you did, you'd be a saint. It's not as if I try to hide, not at all.
I just don't see how.
Repetition is the only thing I know.