I can't eat, can't sleep
Still I hunger for you when you look at me
That face, those eyes
All the sinful pleasures deep inside
Tell me how, you know now, the ways and means of getting in
Underneath my skin,
Oh you were always my original sin
And tell me why,
I shudder inside, every time we begin
This dangerous game
Oh you were always my original sin
A dream will fly
The moment that you open up your eyes
A dream is just a riddle
Ghosts from every corner of your life

I recieved a punch to the stomach and now I can't breathe. It lasts and lasts and I hold my breath when the air comes back to me. I left my skin and I live solely in air and thoughts. Its a bit like medidating, only unintended.

What happens when your body and your thoughts becomes a prison only you can break free from, only you have the key to, but cannot seem to find it?

My skin is crawling and I have two tiny dwarfs fighting over my thought, like they're ropes to be cut off and owned... I feel like dying and dancing at the same time. Let me get some sleep!

Somehow life turns around. It turns around you, and it turns you around. Understanding the processes may seem impossible, controlling them is futile.
There was a reason once that we listened to poeple of age, because they were people of wisdom and of experience. They would say that life is unpredictable, but somehow we stopped believing them, because you had to eat, had to sleep, had to get up and it all was so routine, so predictable.

Somehow we got stuck in a moment and believed life was those moments we inhereted from yesterday and could define.

the wave

My day is like a wave. Crashing on the shore and slowly retracting back into the sea of time, a lifetime. My ocean is days I experienced and each drop that made me wet and affected me. Sometimes my wave hit the shore and its polluted. Like a ship that sailed on my ocean crashed, burned and spilled its oil on the shore. I get stuck and all the wasted materials my wave brings with it gets sucked up, gets polluted too...

My day is like a wave, and sometimes the wind just pushes it lightly towards the sand. Sometimes it floates as if to caress the tiny stones and and the bare feet that walks along my shore. My wave makes the shore a clean new sheet and washes up the hidden wrecks at the same time. Whats sinks and what floats are decide my the whim of winds and the heavyness of its weight on my shoulders.

My day is a wave and today it roared to land, trying to escape its own elemt, wanting to be dust and sand and fire, but drowned it all in the attempt. Now my wave has fire in its heart.

confronting fear of flying

Because we were not designed to fly like birds, whenever we get into a “flying machine” we have to confront our deepest fears of human vulnerability. It’s not so much that flying is “unnatural,” but that in finding ourselves way up in the sky, sealed in a machine, we can hear our deepest whisperings of vulnerability more clearly than anywhere else.

blog nr 50

Today I want a fighter. Someone who fights for me. Not in the sense that he doesn't have me, cause he does, but in the sense that he'll join a barfight, fight club or the army if needed to rescue me or defend me. I'm a pacifist, but surely I want to be worthy a fight if necessary. Its the chivalry of it, I guess, that gives a fist in the face a certain grace. Am I being oldfashion today? Guess so. Loosing principles? debatable.

don't lose yourself
in the heart of another
don't be who you're not
in the end we've got each other