The truth of Iceye

My english is still dwindling. I write and write and feel as if my insides slowly squeal like raisins at the same pace as my fingers slow down over the keyboard letters, and my head takes desperate tours in Swedish around little corners.
English was my safety and my own world, my exit out of myself and into Iceye. Now it's freezing, dying, like the roses of Salikon, and I am desperate... truly, I am desperate for something to save me. I watch movies without subtitles and mix in english with my swenglish even more often, but it is as if it doesn't matter anymore. I still stare at the black against white on my computer screen and feel like I'm producing mice when I could build an elephant.
Yes, my Swedish is getting a little better. But I don't want it anymore. Take it away! All of it! Erase my mind, but give me my little own world under the rosebush back, and warm my fingers into a tapdance! Take it away! Take me away! I don't want myself anymore, I want Iceye! I want the rush of sentences and delicate pronounciations, I want the flow of the heart of my characters!
I am not Iceye, you must understand this most underlying truth. I am me. Iceye is here, in these letters, in my texts, in my poems. It is outside of me, so it can be greater than me, and it doesn't need me like I need it. And now, caught in Swedish, this language of mortals and men, my poems are becoming me, are abandoning Iceye. Like an imaginary friend no longer of use it is fading, hiding. It mustn't. Because I have no desire to become an author. But Iceye already is, and I must follow it, into death if fate so wills. If I lose her, I am lost.