Hello, blank page. I'd say I've missed you, but that'd be a big, blunt lie.
You're just an ass, do you know that? Just an idiot. You're just in the way, you put me off, you scare all my ideas away. I reckon it'd be better if every notebook, or every new document in Word or NeoOffice came with at least some text. Not necessarily Shakespeare or Yates (let's face it, that'd be worse), but just ... something. Anything. Just so the first page wouldn't be blank.
I hate blank pages. I hate them. There isn't a lot in life I use the word 'hate' about, but blank pages are something I definitely hate. ... well, them and Arsenal. Difference is I can ignore Arsenal. You can't ignore a blank page. It's there every time you try to do something useful. Write something worth while. And then you end up just staring at it. Or cursing it. Or doing something else.
Why is it so hard? It's all up here, all of it. The ideas are in my head, like a million movies playing out one clip at a time. But whenever I sit down to write, to put the words on paper, make the images into text, I blank. I mean, occasionally it comes out. But most of the time, it just ... scampers away to some corner of your brain you can't really reach, and hides behind some mundane shit.
And I know I can do it. Because I've done it before. I wrote a book last year. Fair enough, a shit one, but hey; it's a book. Possibly a great book, with some work. So I know I can do it. I just can't force it.
Viser innlegg med etiketten random. Vis alle innlegg
Viser innlegg med etiketten random. Vis alle innlegg
lørdag 2. juli 2011
onsdag 4. mai 2011
Dear bullies
I wonder if you would still bully if you understood just what you're doing to people. If, somehow, you could be given an insight into our lives ten years later. Not an article, or a story, or a blogpost. But an actual, physical and mental look into how we feel from day to day.
Because we never forget. Because we're never quite rid of it. Because it's always there.
It's not always bad. Not every day, not all the time. You just never know when it's going to strike, or how, or why.
It can be something as tiny, and seemingly insignificant, as slowing down before a zebra-crossing, because you don't want to cause the drivers trouble by having to stop for you.
Or not daring to meet people's eye when you walk down the street, because who would want your attention?
It's dismissing an entire job-listing, because you've already seen how horribly wrong it can go before you've even applied.
It's not sitting next to people you sort of know on the bus, because why would they want anything to do with you?
It's never starting conversations, because why would people want to talk to you?
It's not smiling at people, because what if they don't smile back?
It's not talking to that guy you think is cute, because what if he rejects you?
It's not telling people your true feelings, because your true feelings don't matter.
It's walking through a room, and feeling like everyone in it is judging you.
It's someone walking past you, laughing, and you instantly assuming you're the bud of their joke.
It's not speaking up, because your opinion doesn't matter.
It's not believing a guy when he says he likes you, because why would he?
It's not saying 'hi' to people you haven't seen in a while, because why would they remember you?
It's making every little victory count, because who knows when you're getting the next one?
It's not daring to be yourself, because people won't like you.
It's wanting to stand out, but being afraid of being noticed.
It's not believing you deserve what you want.
It's not trusting new people, because they might hurt you.
It's not really trusting the people you do know, because they might turn on you.
It's instantly being suspicious of everyone, because you never know who will lash out.
It's spending so much time trying to be invisible, that in the end you kind of achieve it.
It's keeping so much bottled up that when you do open your mouth, too much comes out.
It's being insecure for the rest of our lives. And all because we didn't fit your standards.
I'm sorry, but who the hell gives you the right??
Because we never forget. Because we're never quite rid of it. Because it's always there.
It's not always bad. Not every day, not all the time. You just never know when it's going to strike, or how, or why.
It can be something as tiny, and seemingly insignificant, as slowing down before a zebra-crossing, because you don't want to cause the drivers trouble by having to stop for you.
Or not daring to meet people's eye when you walk down the street, because who would want your attention?
It's dismissing an entire job-listing, because you've already seen how horribly wrong it can go before you've even applied.
It's not sitting next to people you sort of know on the bus, because why would they want anything to do with you?
It's never starting conversations, because why would people want to talk to you?
It's not smiling at people, because what if they don't smile back?
It's not talking to that guy you think is cute, because what if he rejects you?
It's not telling people your true feelings, because your true feelings don't matter.
It's walking through a room, and feeling like everyone in it is judging you.
It's someone walking past you, laughing, and you instantly assuming you're the bud of their joke.
It's not speaking up, because your opinion doesn't matter.
It's not believing a guy when he says he likes you, because why would he?
It's not saying 'hi' to people you haven't seen in a while, because why would they remember you?
It's making every little victory count, because who knows when you're getting the next one?
It's not daring to be yourself, because people won't like you.
It's wanting to stand out, but being afraid of being noticed.
It's not believing you deserve what you want.
It's not trusting new people, because they might hurt you.
It's not really trusting the people you do know, because they might turn on you.
It's instantly being suspicious of everyone, because you never know who will lash out.
It's spending so much time trying to be invisible, that in the end you kind of achieve it.
It's keeping so much bottled up that when you do open your mouth, too much comes out.
It's being insecure for the rest of our lives. And all because we didn't fit your standards.
I'm sorry, but who the hell gives you the right??
[fragment]
It's funny how fast a feeling can come back to you. How you were convinced it had been subdued forever, and then all it takes is one tiny little moment to bring it all back to life. It wasn't gone after all, not dead and buried like you thought (or maybe hoped). It just needed a jolt, a little reminder of how things used to be, and it's right back where it belongs. Even if you don't want it there anymore. Even if you locked it away for a very good, very self-preservatory reason.
Because feelings just don't care. They don't care if they make problems for you.
Because feelings just don't care. They don't care if they make problems for you.
lørdag 16. oktober 2010
The one that got away
I try not to think of you much. Not these days, not anymore. I spent so much time teaching myself not to, that it seems a waste of time to undo it all now.
But, of course, I say "I try". I fail, sometimes. I let it all rush back to me. Sometimes, just sometimes, I let it. I know I'm gonna pay for it, I know the tears are going to well up in my eyes and I know I'll be angry with myself in the morning.
But sometimes I just have to.
You're not really 'the one that got away'. Losing something etails having it, and I never really had you, did I? Maybe I could have, maybe I should have. Maybe we were both too busy seeing solutions to realise we were trying to solve the wrong problem.
No, you're more 'the one who went away'. The one who disappeared. They all do, of course. But you're the only one who really mattered. You're the only one who really left an empty space. We forget, we learn to do without. We close the gaps, in the end.
The one you left is still open. I've put something in front of it, a large sheet or a tall drape. Something to hide the memory of what was there, block out the past. Out of sight, out of mind.
But I can't help but pull the drape back, every once in a while. And more often than not, it's not something I do consciously. There'll be a little memory, or an offhand comment that in no way relates to you. But it triggers something, a memory or a word. Or a smile.
And there you are.
I know where you are, of course. The fact that you're gone is just as much my doing as it is yours. I had to forget you, you see. I didn't want to. More than anything I'd have kept you. I do miss you.
But I had to be selfish. I couldn't keep opening that old wound. And I did every time I saw you. So I had to stop looking.
But I never stopped thinking. I never stopped imagening. I never stopped wondering.
I guess I never stopped believing. I guess maybe I never will.
Maybe, sometimes, love is destined to be tragic. True and deep and eternal. But tragic. Maybe sometimes it has to end in tears. Maybe some people are meant only to long for someone, and never actually posess them.
Or maybe I failed, somewhere. Maybe I stopped when I should have ran, drew back when I should have jumped. Maybe this is my own fault, in the end. Maybe 10, 20 more years down the line and I'll still be thinking this.
Maybe ... maybe, sometimes, they're meant to get away ...
But, of course, I say "I try". I fail, sometimes. I let it all rush back to me. Sometimes, just sometimes, I let it. I know I'm gonna pay for it, I know the tears are going to well up in my eyes and I know I'll be angry with myself in the morning.
But sometimes I just have to.
You're not really 'the one that got away'. Losing something etails having it, and I never really had you, did I? Maybe I could have, maybe I should have. Maybe we were both too busy seeing solutions to realise we were trying to solve the wrong problem.
No, you're more 'the one who went away'. The one who disappeared. They all do, of course. But you're the only one who really mattered. You're the only one who really left an empty space. We forget, we learn to do without. We close the gaps, in the end.
The one you left is still open. I've put something in front of it, a large sheet or a tall drape. Something to hide the memory of what was there, block out the past. Out of sight, out of mind.
But I can't help but pull the drape back, every once in a while. And more often than not, it's not something I do consciously. There'll be a little memory, or an offhand comment that in no way relates to you. But it triggers something, a memory or a word. Or a smile.
And there you are.
I know where you are, of course. The fact that you're gone is just as much my doing as it is yours. I had to forget you, you see. I didn't want to. More than anything I'd have kept you. I do miss you.
But I had to be selfish. I couldn't keep opening that old wound. And I did every time I saw you. So I had to stop looking.
But I never stopped thinking. I never stopped imagening. I never stopped wondering.
I guess I never stopped believing. I guess maybe I never will.
Maybe, sometimes, love is destined to be tragic. True and deep and eternal. But tragic. Maybe sometimes it has to end in tears. Maybe some people are meant only to long for someone, and never actually posess them.
Or maybe I failed, somewhere. Maybe I stopped when I should have ran, drew back when I should have jumped. Maybe this is my own fault, in the end. Maybe 10, 20 more years down the line and I'll still be thinking this.
Maybe ... maybe, sometimes, they're meant to get away ...
onsdag 21. juli 2010
Lost
I wonder where they go, all the ideas I lose. I wonder if anyone finds them. I wonder if they become stories somewhere else, or if they just disappear alltogether.
Because if they do, that's a terrible loss...
Because if they do, that's a terrible loss...
tirsdag 29. juni 2010
[fractions of fiction]
– I've been thinking
– Yes?
– About those rules.
He leaned past me, grabbing the calender.
– One, in particular.
– And which one would that be?
– The "never get personal" one.
– What about it?
– Well, we're getting to be pretty good friends. Is that going to be a problem?
– Not for you, I smiled.
The look on his face made me kill the smile instantly.
– That was a joke.
– I know.
He gave me a small smile, but his eyes betrayed him.
– But it still answered my question.
*
I knew I had lost. In fact, I had lost the minute our eyes locked. I couldn't say 'no' to them, and consequently I couldn't say 'no' to him. The rational part of my brain was frenzied, desperate for anything that would win me the discussion. But I found nothing. Instead, I found that another small eternity had passed while I was lost in his gaze.
– Yes?
– About those rules.
He leaned past me, grabbing the calender.
– One, in particular.
– And which one would that be?
– The "never get personal" one.
– What about it?
– Well, we're getting to be pretty good friends. Is that going to be a problem?
– Not for you, I smiled.
The look on his face made me kill the smile instantly.
– That was a joke.
– I know.
He gave me a small smile, but his eyes betrayed him.
– But it still answered my question.
*
I knew I had lost. In fact, I had lost the minute our eyes locked. I couldn't say 'no' to them, and consequently I couldn't say 'no' to him. The rational part of my brain was frenzied, desperate for anything that would win me the discussion. But I found nothing. Instead, I found that another small eternity had passed while I was lost in his gaze.
onsdag 23. juni 2010
torsdag 10. juni 2010
[fragment]
I want to hold you. Tight. Really really tight, your body pressed up against mine. Kiss you like it's the last time I ever will. Run my fingers through your hair. Whisper in your ear, feel your breath on my skin. Your lips on mine, your hands in my hair. A chaos of emotions and sensations.
I want curl up in your arms, forget everything around us, and just have it be you and me. Just us, just this moment.
I want to talk about nothing. And everything. And all the little things in between. Bicker, with a smile, over the things we never agree on. See that smile you give me when my reasoning goes from plausible to ridiculous. And still you persist.
I want to watch the sun go down and the dark to come creeping. I want to stay up until the sun chases it away again.
And I want you to want it too ...
I want curl up in your arms, forget everything around us, and just have it be you and me. Just us, just this moment.
I want to talk about nothing. And everything. And all the little things in between. Bicker, with a smile, over the things we never agree on. See that smile you give me when my reasoning goes from plausible to ridiculous. And still you persist.
I want to watch the sun go down and the dark to come creeping. I want to stay up until the sun chases it away again.
And I want you to want it too ...
onsdag 9. juni 2010
In my dreams
In my dreams, you told me ... well, you didn't tell me anything. Not really. It's what you did that lingers. That's what got me stuck. That's why I'm still thinking.
That's why my head drifts off. Why I can't focus. It was such a good dream, I don't want to let it go just yet.
If I close my eyes, still, I can remember it. All of it ... well, at least all the best of it. The little things that mean nothing to everyone else, but everything to me. How it felt to lean against you. How it felt to have your arm around me. The warmth of your body, the smell of your sweater. Your chin resting on the top of my head, your stubble scratching my forehead. The sound of you breathing. And how it made me feel.
If I close my eyes, it's like I'm right there again. Happy. Content. Where I want to be.
If I close my eyes, and remember all this ... i never want to open them again.
That's why my head drifts off. Why I can't focus. It was such a good dream, I don't want to let it go just yet.
If I close my eyes, still, I can remember it. All of it ... well, at least all the best of it. The little things that mean nothing to everyone else, but everything to me. How it felt to lean against you. How it felt to have your arm around me. The warmth of your body, the smell of your sweater. Your chin resting on the top of my head, your stubble scratching my forehead. The sound of you breathing. And how it made me feel.
If I close my eyes, it's like I'm right there again. Happy. Content. Where I want to be.
If I close my eyes, and remember all this ... i never want to open them again.
søndag 6. juni 2010
[fragment]
So what if you're not real? So what if I can't have you? So what if all these dreams are nothing but the silly fantasies of a silly girl?
So what if my dreams are foolish? So what if I allow myself to fall too easily, and forget to watch my step? So what if everything I ever imagine never will have a root in reality?
Isn't that what imagination is? And escape from reality? A place where anything, everything can happen at any time? Where dreams come true? The impossible becomes possible?
Who says I can't imagine? That I can't escape from reality, even if it's just for a fleeting second? Who says I can't run to you, even if it's just in my dreams?
Isn't this world hard enough? Don't we struggle enough? Don't we deserve a refuge, somewhere things are as we wish?
Who decided that my ways are wrong? That my dreams are foolish? That I can't defy gravity?
Isn't life what happens to you while you're making other plans?
So what if my dreams are foolish? So what if I allow myself to fall too easily, and forget to watch my step? So what if everything I ever imagine never will have a root in reality?
Isn't that what imagination is? And escape from reality? A place where anything, everything can happen at any time? Where dreams come true? The impossible becomes possible?
Who says I can't imagine? That I can't escape from reality, even if it's just for a fleeting second? Who says I can't run to you, even if it's just in my dreams?
Isn't this world hard enough? Don't we struggle enough? Don't we deserve a refuge, somewhere things are as we wish?
Who decided that my ways are wrong? That my dreams are foolish? That I can't defy gravity?
Isn't life what happens to you while you're making other plans?
tirsdag 11. mai 2010
Maybe something
– I want you.
She had wanted to say that for so long, she's just never found the words. She would look at him, think of all the right things to say, but the second she opened her mouth they were gone. And she had wondered about it a lot, if she was reading it right. If telling him how she really felt, what she really wanted, would yield a positive result.
Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe she had mistaken friendship for something more. Maybe he would turn her down too.
Maybe that was why she had waited so long. The crulest crimes are those of the heart, as Jane Austen put it. Not that not loving someone back was a crime, but having such a suspicion confirmed would cut deeply. Sometimes, it was safer to not say. To not speak. To keep ones feelings to one self. Sometimes, it was worth giving up the possibility of reality just to nurture the fantasy. The fantasy, after all, was perfect.
But she couldn't touch him in her dreams. She couldn't run her fingers through his hair. She couldn't wake up next to him in the early morning, and watch him sleep.
She couldn't kiss him.
... well, she could. But not physically. She could only imagine. Only wonder. Until she found the words, she would never really know.
Why the words had been so hard to find, she didn't know. Because now that they had been said, they seemed so utterly simple. What more was there to say? Admittedly, there were a million things she could have said. But they would only complicate things, make it harder to say what she really meant.
I want you.
She braced herself, waiting for what always came.
The rejection.
"I'm sorry, I don't feel that way."
"You're wonderful, but ..."
But he said nothing. His eyes bore into her with a look she couldn't read. Confusion, maybe? What felt like an eternity of silence passed, only broken by the ticking clock on the wall, constantly reminding them that something had to be said.
– You want me?
He broke the silence, finally. She could still feel his eyes, burning a hole in her.
– I know it's silly, she started.
– I know the timing is way off, I know I should have said-
A finger on her lips silenced her. She dared look up for the first time, and meet his gaze.
He was smiling.
– I want you too.
The words hit her like a warm wave, washing over her. At first, she didn't believe she had heard him right. But his smile confirmed it.
– I've wanted you for so long, he breathed
– I've wanted you for so long, too
– Then what's taken us so long?
She shrugged
– I guess we're insanely stupid
He laughed, a short but hearty laugh. Slowly, he ran his hand down her cheek, touched her lips with his thumb.
And then he kissed her.
She had wanted to say that for so long, she's just never found the words. She would look at him, think of all the right things to say, but the second she opened her mouth they were gone. And she had wondered about it a lot, if she was reading it right. If telling him how she really felt, what she really wanted, would yield a positive result.
Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe she had mistaken friendship for something more. Maybe he would turn her down too.
Maybe that was why she had waited so long. The crulest crimes are those of the heart, as Jane Austen put it. Not that not loving someone back was a crime, but having such a suspicion confirmed would cut deeply. Sometimes, it was safer to not say. To not speak. To keep ones feelings to one self. Sometimes, it was worth giving up the possibility of reality just to nurture the fantasy. The fantasy, after all, was perfect.
But she couldn't touch him in her dreams. She couldn't run her fingers through his hair. She couldn't wake up next to him in the early morning, and watch him sleep.
She couldn't kiss him.
... well, she could. But not physically. She could only imagine. Only wonder. Until she found the words, she would never really know.
Why the words had been so hard to find, she didn't know. Because now that they had been said, they seemed so utterly simple. What more was there to say? Admittedly, there were a million things she could have said. But they would only complicate things, make it harder to say what she really meant.
I want you.
She braced herself, waiting for what always came.
The rejection.
"I'm sorry, I don't feel that way."
"You're wonderful, but ..."
But he said nothing. His eyes bore into her with a look she couldn't read. Confusion, maybe? What felt like an eternity of silence passed, only broken by the ticking clock on the wall, constantly reminding them that something had to be said.
– You want me?
He broke the silence, finally. She could still feel his eyes, burning a hole in her.
– I know it's silly, she started.
– I know the timing is way off, I know I should have said-
A finger on her lips silenced her. She dared look up for the first time, and meet his gaze.
He was smiling.
– I want you too.
The words hit her like a warm wave, washing over her. At first, she didn't believe she had heard him right. But his smile confirmed it.
– I've wanted you for so long, he breathed
– I've wanted you for so long, too
– Then what's taken us so long?
She shrugged
– I guess we're insanely stupid
He laughed, a short but hearty laugh. Slowly, he ran his hand down her cheek, touched her lips with his thumb.
And then he kissed her.
onsdag 21. april 2010
Blue eyes
It's funny what a pair of blue eyes can do. They have a sort of power, all on their own. They spellbind you in a very particular way.
Brown eyes do too, but in a different way. Brown eyes are mysterious, appealing. They lure you, draw you in. Allow you to dream, but never quite deliver. Brown eyes make you want them. But you know they're too good for you.
Green eyes are funny. They always smile, even when the rest of the face doesn't. They sparkle, they spell "mischievous". Come along, we'll have some fun. They always have a plan. But mostly you're not part of it, in the end.
But blue eyes.
Blue eyes are shy. Blue eyes say everything, without the mouth saying anything. Blue eyes always stun you. Because you never quite remember how blue they were.
You forgive blue eyes. For everything. You might have given up on blue eyes, but all it takes is one look and you forget everything.
Blue eyes hold you. Almost in a scary way. You forget to look away from blue eyes.
But blue eyes are shy. Eventually, blue eyes look away. But they stay with you, even when they're not there.
Blue eyes will not, cannot be forgotten.
Blue eyes are perfect.
The blue eyes belong to you. And you're as perfect as they are.
Brown eyes do too, but in a different way. Brown eyes are mysterious, appealing. They lure you, draw you in. Allow you to dream, but never quite deliver. Brown eyes make you want them. But you know they're too good for you.
Green eyes are funny. They always smile, even when the rest of the face doesn't. They sparkle, they spell "mischievous". Come along, we'll have some fun. They always have a plan. But mostly you're not part of it, in the end.
But blue eyes.
Blue eyes are shy. Blue eyes say everything, without the mouth saying anything. Blue eyes always stun you. Because you never quite remember how blue they were.
You forgive blue eyes. For everything. You might have given up on blue eyes, but all it takes is one look and you forget everything.
Blue eyes hold you. Almost in a scary way. You forget to look away from blue eyes.
But blue eyes are shy. Eventually, blue eyes look away. But they stay with you, even when they're not there.
Blue eyes will not, cannot be forgotten.
Blue eyes are perfect.
The blue eyes belong to you. And you're as perfect as they are.
This is how a heart breaks
You know that feeling you get the exact moment your heart breaks? The feeling of total an utter emptiness. It’s like someone’s flushed out every emotion you have, leaving you completely void.
And then, as you’re trying to figure out what this is, what just happened (even though you know so well), it hits you. That crushing blow. The one that smothers your heart into itsy bitsy pieces, scattering them on the wind so you’re convinced you’ll never find them again and that your heart will remain broken forever.
The realisation that the one person who you’re convinced could make you happy, the one person out of all the people you know who you actually see yourself with. The realisation that this person will never make you happy. He has no interest in making you happy. He never did. He never will.
This is how a heart breaks.
And then, as you’re trying to figure out what this is, what just happened (even though you know so well), it hits you. That crushing blow. The one that smothers your heart into itsy bitsy pieces, scattering them on the wind so you’re convinced you’ll never find them again and that your heart will remain broken forever.
The realisation that the one person who you’re convinced could make you happy, the one person out of all the people you know who you actually see yourself with. The realisation that this person will never make you happy. He has no interest in making you happy. He never did. He never will.
This is how a heart breaks.
tirsdag 20. april 2010
Blank pages
The blank page is mocking me again.
It's just sitting there. Mocking me.
"C'mon then, what are you waiting for? You think you can do me justice? You think you leave a mark? You think you can make me something?
Who do you think you are?"
It knows. It knows I have a story, right at the tip of my tongue, refusing to find its way to the tip of my fingers. It knows I want to write. It knows I wish I had all the time in the world, all the inspiration I could find. It knows.
And its mocking me.
Its daring me. "Go on, do something brilliant like you've always talked about. Let's hear it, genious. I'm right here! Fill me with substance, make me something."
It knows I can't. Its won by now. It's no longer a blank page, and I've failed it yet again. I've proven it right.
More words wasted. More words that could have been something, that could have mattered. They've all turned to nothing.
I've almost filled a page.
And it's nothing.
It's absolutely nothing.
It's just sitting there. Mocking me.
"C'mon then, what are you waiting for? You think you can do me justice? You think you leave a mark? You think you can make me something?
Who do you think you are?"
It knows. It knows I have a story, right at the tip of my tongue, refusing to find its way to the tip of my fingers. It knows I want to write. It knows I wish I had all the time in the world, all the inspiration I could find. It knows.
And its mocking me.
Its daring me. "Go on, do something brilliant like you've always talked about. Let's hear it, genious. I'm right here! Fill me with substance, make me something."
It knows I can't. Its won by now. It's no longer a blank page, and I've failed it yet again. I've proven it right.
More words wasted. More words that could have been something, that could have mattered. They've all turned to nothing.
I've almost filled a page.
And it's nothing.
It's absolutely nothing.
Why
I never thought about why...
I thought about it a lot, but never about why. I thought about how to stop it, about what I'd done to deserve it. But I never thought about why.
Why you?
And why me?
Why?
I thought about it a lot, but never about why. I thought about how to stop it, about what I'd done to deserve it. But I never thought about why.
Why you?
And why me?
Why?
onsdag 14. april 2010
True love
Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds (Shakespeare)
Love... true love, no less. We've all got an idea, as we're growing up, about just what that means. Mainly, it's finding the man of your dreams, having kids and living happily ever after. The ONE.
... well, you'll get no arguements from me. Except no one ever said there's only one kind of true love...
I've found a kind of true love that might not fit the mould, but explains the concept. Because William is right, love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. And the best way to explain it, is football.
(that's really football, the kind with goalkeepers and offside and stuff)
No no no, don't leave. Hear me out. I have a point, I promise.
How many people do you know who's changed favourite teams?
... exactly. That relationship that you end up having with a favourite team, that love you end up feeling for the players, the club... you don't change favourite teams. You just don't. They win the league, you're over the moon with them. They relegate and you share their tears. Look at the Leeds-supporters. Their team has been down in the dump for years, and they're all still loyal.
You love them all. The players, the coach... even if it's a player or coach you couldn't stand before he came, and can't stand after he leaves. While he's there, you love him.
Isn't that true love? Staying by someone's side through good times and bad, supporting them no matter what?
Love... true love, no less. We've all got an idea, as we're growing up, about just what that means. Mainly, it's finding the man of your dreams, having kids and living happily ever after. The ONE.
... well, you'll get no arguements from me. Except no one ever said there's only one kind of true love...
I've found a kind of true love that might not fit the mould, but explains the concept. Because William is right, love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. And the best way to explain it, is football.
(that's really football, the kind with goalkeepers and offside and stuff)
No no no, don't leave. Hear me out. I have a point, I promise.
How many people do you know who's changed favourite teams?
... exactly. That relationship that you end up having with a favourite team, that love you end up feeling for the players, the club... you don't change favourite teams. You just don't. They win the league, you're over the moon with them. They relegate and you share their tears. Look at the Leeds-supporters. Their team has been down in the dump for years, and they're all still loyal.
You love them all. The players, the coach... even if it's a player or coach you couldn't stand before he came, and can't stand after he leaves. While he's there, you love him.
Isn't that true love? Staying by someone's side through good times and bad, supporting them no matter what?
søndag 11. april 2010
He doesn't see me
He doesn't see me
He just doesn't
I don't know if he doesn't want to
Or if he simply can't
But he doesn't see me
I'm right there
Right in front of him
Alive and breathing
And ready to be all he wants me to be
But he doesn't see me
I see him
I see everything about him
Even the tiny details
Like how he sips his drink
Or scraches his nose
How his voice booms when he's angry
And how his eyes sparkle when he smiles
But he doesn't see me
I notice how his lips move when he talks
How he kicks the ground when he's embaressed
How he he claps
How he sings
But he doesn't see me
I see him even when he's not there
I see possibilities
I wonder
I hope
But he doesn't see me
I see where this could go
Where I'd want it to go
How good it could be
How perfect we are
But none of that helps
Because he doesn't see me
He just doesn't
I don't know if he doesn't want to
Or if he simply can't
But he doesn't see me
I'm right there
Right in front of him
Alive and breathing
And ready to be all he wants me to be
But he doesn't see me
I see him
I see everything about him
Even the tiny details
Like how he sips his drink
Or scraches his nose
How his voice booms when he's angry
And how his eyes sparkle when he smiles
But he doesn't see me
I notice how his lips move when he talks
How he kicks the ground when he's embaressed
How he he claps
How he sings
But he doesn't see me
I see him even when he's not there
I see possibilities
I wonder
I hope
But he doesn't see me
I see where this could go
Where I'd want it to go
How good it could be
How perfect we are
But none of that helps
Because he doesn't see me
lørdag 10. april 2010
[blank]
I was gonna write tonight. I was! I was gonna sit down, and create brilliance. I've even installed myself with tea and candles and everything. I was going to write something splendid, something moving, something that actually WAS something for a change.
And what am I writing? More "blank page"-crap!
I refuse to believe that God has give me this overactive imagination if he didn't want me to use it for something constructive. Because if I've just got it for my own amusement then seriously, God; you gave me too much.
Overanalyzing to the degree I'm capable of is only fun if you can overanalyze it into stories, or scripts or something that can be used for something else than a blogpost!
I do have ideas. I have TONS of ideas. They'd be fun to write too. I started one of them. A love-story, of sorts. Haven't decided how to end it, but I'm leaning towards your standard, happy, mushy ending. Considering how pissed I get when people rob me of them.
It's even in Norwegian. I haven't written in Norwegian in ages, and it turns out I'm no good at it anymore. Why write in Norwegian, when everything sounds so much better in English?
How am I ever going to write professionally, when I can't even use my own language?
And what am I writing? More "blank page"-crap!
I refuse to believe that God has give me this overactive imagination if he didn't want me to use it for something constructive. Because if I've just got it for my own amusement then seriously, God; you gave me too much.
Overanalyzing to the degree I'm capable of is only fun if you can overanalyze it into stories, or scripts or something that can be used for something else than a blogpost!
I do have ideas. I have TONS of ideas. They'd be fun to write too. I started one of them. A love-story, of sorts. Haven't decided how to end it, but I'm leaning towards your standard, happy, mushy ending. Considering how pissed I get when people rob me of them.
It's even in Norwegian. I haven't written in Norwegian in ages, and it turns out I'm no good at it anymore. Why write in Norwegian, when everything sounds so much better in English?
How am I ever going to write professionally, when I can't even use my own language?
torsdag 8. april 2010
[no name]
Sometimes... sometimes you just want to write something. Anything. It doesn't matter what. Mostly, you wish it's something of substance. Something that means something. Something that might turn into something. Sometime.
But sometimes it's nice to just write. Just concentrate on making sentances. Long ones, filled with words you have to look up just to make sure you've both spelled and used right. Or short ones. Two words. Just because they're short, doesn't mean they don't have meaning.
Writing in itself can be quite rewarding. An escape, of sorts. When you write, you have to think about what you're writing. And then you automatically forget everything else, because you become entranced with the task of making sense. And making it sound beautiful.
It's no wonder writing is meant to be therapeutic (I had to look that up). Imagine all the things you can have, if you just write them. A healthy imagination and a blank page, and the world is at your feet. Fair enough, a world that only exists in those few (or many) lines you write. But still; isn't it better to have a fantasy, however fleeting, than a harsh reality you can't handle?
Maybe you'll say I'm avoiding reality. So what if I am? Sometimes, it's good to get away from reality. Reality can be a bitch. In reality, you have little say over how things go. You can try, you can succeed from time to time. But in most cases, reality overrules you. Reality wins. Reality makes the rules, you just have to obey.
That's what's so wonderful about fantasy. Fantasies live by your rules.
So you can't really do magic.
In fantasies you can.
So you're not skinny and beautiful like Keira Knightly.
In fantasies you can be. Or you don't have to be.
So he doesn't look your way.
In fantasies he can. And he will. And a whole lot more.
The only thing stopping you is... well, you.
But sometimes it's nice to just write. Just concentrate on making sentances. Long ones, filled with words you have to look up just to make sure you've both spelled and used right. Or short ones. Two words. Just because they're short, doesn't mean they don't have meaning.
Writing in itself can be quite rewarding. An escape, of sorts. When you write, you have to think about what you're writing. And then you automatically forget everything else, because you become entranced with the task of making sense. And making it sound beautiful.
It's no wonder writing is meant to be therapeutic (I had to look that up). Imagine all the things you can have, if you just write them. A healthy imagination and a blank page, and the world is at your feet. Fair enough, a world that only exists in those few (or many) lines you write. But still; isn't it better to have a fantasy, however fleeting, than a harsh reality you can't handle?
Maybe you'll say I'm avoiding reality. So what if I am? Sometimes, it's good to get away from reality. Reality can be a bitch. In reality, you have little say over how things go. You can try, you can succeed from time to time. But in most cases, reality overrules you. Reality wins. Reality makes the rules, you just have to obey.
That's what's so wonderful about fantasy. Fantasies live by your rules.
So you can't really do magic.
In fantasies you can.
So you're not skinny and beautiful like Keira Knightly.
In fantasies you can be. Or you don't have to be.
So he doesn't look your way.
In fantasies he can. And he will. And a whole lot more.
The only thing stopping you is... well, you.
mandag 5. april 2010
You,
I can't take my eyes off you.
Fair enough, I haven't really tried. Why would I want to? When God has gone out of his way to create someone so absolutely beyond all known definitions of 'beautiful', why on earth should I force my gaze away? Why else would he make you such a work of art, if it wasn't to attract mine (and others) attention?
It's an inapropriate little thing, this... infatuation, for lack of better word. I certainly don't know you, I can't claim to love you for anything but what I see. And what I see you do. Which, as I well know, is only a little part of who you are, and I harbour no illusions that I will ever know the rest.
Nor am I quite sure I want to. I believe, firmly, that sometimes it is better to simply let ones mind wander. To dream quietly, to watch from afar. To be content with what the eye can see, and the mind can dream up on late nights alone. Reality, after all, has messed up its share of fantasies...
Fair enough, I haven't really tried. Why would I want to? When God has gone out of his way to create someone so absolutely beyond all known definitions of 'beautiful', why on earth should I force my gaze away? Why else would he make you such a work of art, if it wasn't to attract mine (and others) attention?
It's an inapropriate little thing, this... infatuation, for lack of better word. I certainly don't know you, I can't claim to love you for anything but what I see. And what I see you do. Which, as I well know, is only a little part of who you are, and I harbour no illusions that I will ever know the rest.
Nor am I quite sure I want to. I believe, firmly, that sometimes it is better to simply let ones mind wander. To dream quietly, to watch from afar. To be content with what the eye can see, and the mind can dream up on late nights alone. Reality, after all, has messed up its share of fantasies...
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