Although you are the one with the scars
I have been the one carrying them
Heavy pockets full of stones
And of your sorrows at home I keep entire jars
I became old by accident just trying to sort all of them
Til I made rituals of ink on my skin just to travel far
And I must undo to myself the evil received in the media of pop song
And I went around and around
Asking endlessly the same questions
The cargo jets growl and tempest and it is never far enough
And I ground my bones to a dust to make magic potions
Let me carry the child and grow plants in gardens that aren’t mine
And the promises to wait for your heart to go back to itself
Will only make sense on the day that I am gone
For your sorrows at home I keep an entire shrine
Where all sorts of demons are stored on a shelf
And I’ll never come back to them if I travel far
I’m going away for a couple of weeks but it’s no holiday. I’m going away to seek asylum from the war in my head. To find stillness, to yield the loneliness, bend the anxiety, manipulate the madness.
I’m escaping to arctic winds to remind myself that I am alive. I’m going away to seek the visible breath as proof that I am warm on the inside.
I’m going away for a couple of weeks but it’s no holiday. I have this incurable illness of restlessness, a pre existing condition of being alive. I’m running from the punishment of perpetual consciousness to entertain ideas of unrealistic virtues of an eternal hedonism.
I’m escaping to find beauty in the ugliness, find a fraction of joy in the bitterness, peace in the chaos, existence in the loneliness. To take my fractured sense of self, put that black dress on and contemplate death under the pale moonlight.
Tønsberg is nice in the summer, apparently. I’m yet to see it. I promise to come back in July or June. Today, like yesterday, is nice.
We feel cheated because the temperature is nearly twenty degrees Celsius, warmer than home. Norway is supposed to be snow and multiple layers, snow boots, the clattering of teeth, polar bears roaming the streets but instead of balaclavas and fur hoods hiding faces it is sunglasses.
We live in Kaldnes. To reach Kaldnes we have to walk over a foot bridge which connects our little island to the main town. We live in storage containers. We sleep where we shower and we use the toilet in the same room we cook dinner, eat, have sex, drink-merry and miss home. The room must be twenty squared metres maximum but our view goes on for miles.
Sun sets are my favourite. It is not the Northern Lights but every night a mix of purple and pink line the night sky as like wet sand lines a beach as the tide leaves the shore.