Nothing Here - A Love Story

I've biked far on flat road, only the hill left. A monstrous thing, I've never gone up it before. Long and steep and curved like an S. One winter long ago, the bus couldn't make it, but slid backwards down again. We had to get out and walk the rest of the way.

I have a mental method for dealing with unpleasant things. A friend. I call him my angel, but it's only in the sense that you call something vaguely round a 'circle' because you don't know what it is. I'm fully aware that he's just in my head, but it helps, and when I work out, he cheers me on. "When we get to that tree," I tell him, "you go on ahead." In steep hills, I send him up to the top to wait for me. I don't want him next to me, it's stressful, I need to focus. "He's waiting up there, he'll wait for as long as it takes, but you have to make it up," I tell myself. "No feet on the ground." My legs are already telling me to quit. They're done with this shit. I'm a quarter way up. This is going to hurt.

At the top of the hill I have few coherent thoughts beyond how much pain my legs are in. But I made it. I'm here. I've gone to a place I used to be every day, but hasn't been since I left it for the last time, is it fifteen years ago? I've wanted to see it again. I don't know why, but I need to see it again.

It's still there, it looks the same, but at the same time, nothing like it. It looks like nothing. Some houses. The playground is different, all the things are new and in new places. I continue on, to the other playground further away, the one we weren't supposed to be at but spent most of our time at anyway. To get away. The path has been ruined by forest machines but I recognize it.

As I walk it, I start crying. Just a little, a flood of emotions I don't know what they are. Walking this path this direction, with the buildings and the people behind me, used to be the best moment. I used to have a friend here, a flesh and blood friend, although he didn't talk much more than my angel. He used to smile in a way that made everything better, and I think, I think I thought of him as mine. My own shy, wild animal to befriend and watch. I reach the playground and it's mostly gone, only a few bare bones remaining.

There's nothing here.

Not only are the items gone, whatever I was looking for, it isn't here. There aren't even memories; the memories are already in me, I carried them with me. There's absolutely nothing here. It's a little sad. I try to conjure up some feeling for the place, but it's gone. And something small that's been grating on me my whole life, like a rock in your shoe, settles in and finds its place. The past is gone. Nothing remains. All that is, is here, and now. Nothing they did can touch you again, nothing we had can be as it was. There's nothing here.

I walk around some more. I want to see beyond the hill; I remember it all from dreams. I've dreamed of this place quite frequently, it seems I spent so much time here, whenever my mind needs a setting for some dramatic dream plot or other, it uses this. But I am surprised to find that my dreams have stayed quite true to reality, even the things I were sure were dream-additions.

The rolling hills are cut off here and there by solid walls of smaller, thinner trees, growing so tight you can't see beyond the first row. Impassable barriers, where if you push yourself between the soft bendy branches, you can disappear and get lost forever.

There are small trees growing in tight groups, tiny to me, but for a seven-year-old, tall enough to hide in. And as for the large, spread out trees, they're so tall I have to lean my head all the way back to see the top, for a child, they had to be endless.

There are no trees, only pillars of eternity, a hundred feet tall, holding up the heavens. Like little mice setting up their grand comedies and tragedies with dollhouse furniture around the legs of the dining room table, lives began and ended here, selves were made and unmade with the seasons.

I wonder what's beyond the next hill, but it doesn't matter now. Whatever I came looking for, my heart is sated knowing it's not here. I walk back to the bike, thinking of my friend, of his smiles, and of how I never told him what an important friend he was. Even as a small child, I was afraid to show my hand. Afraid to admit I relied on another person, even just liked another person. I joked about it once or twice, but I would never have said it seriously. Said what, exactly?

The other shoe finally drops, having hung on forever. Beneath my childhood ideas of romance and the dramatic plots of TV and books, beneath momentary crushes and greedy wishes, it was always this. My first love. So complicated, and so unimaginably simple. All my life I wondered what love really was, what I was looking for. And standing here in the place that no longer is, it all fits inside a tiny, shy, mysterious smile. Mine. Always and forever, in those moments, mine. Among the memories, it is that little boy that shines like a beacon, and I never realized. That I came here looking for him. That I will keep looking for him all my life.

I get on the bike, my angel resumes his position just behind me on the left. We speed down the hill, wind in my hair, his right wing stretched out over my head. In a few seconds, we've undone all that hard work, all the willpower and pain. We leave it behind, and it's all gone.

There's nothing here.

A Life in Faded Green and Rusty Black

I wish you were here to tell me what is important.

There goes a set of cups,
a carpet,
a curtain,
a candelabra,
a ceramic cat,
a spotless new coffee pot on the big blurry heap
of things that are just things.

A lifetime of things.
Some to be nothings,
some to be somethings.
Ugly things, pretty things,
cheap things, expensive things,
whose price tag is printed in your secret language
and written with dust and fingerprints;
with tears and private smiles.

I wish you were here to tell me what is important.

Is it the chair with a missing button?
Is it the chipped plates with flower prints?
Did you run your fingertips over the surface and feel like home,
or did your partner pick them up against your will?
Did you hide your treasures at the back of the cupboard,
or are they unwanted things stashed out of sight?

One thing on the heap,
one thing in my pocket.
It's like a morbid game show.
"Step up on the stage!
Guess, out of these hundred objects
which one your loved one's ghost would haunt!
Speak up!
Lean closer to the microphone, please."

Please,
I wish you were here to tell me what is important.

Cocoon

The German woman who was kidnapped and kept in a guy's basement for 8 and a half years was just on Skavlan, you can see it on SVTPlay tomorrow probably. Strange somehow. Seeing her there, talking about it, its unimaginable what she went through and yet - she looks just like a normal woman.

We all do. Or, I should say, we look simply like people. It's so easy in movies or comics where people wear their scars or their powers on the outside, but that's not how it works in the real world. Or is there such a thing? If you looked properly into her eyes, would you see the pain she went through, would you see that thing they speak of in literature, where a person has gone through a great deal or seem older than they are? I think, to be honest, that that is only imagination, finding patters because we expect them, like seeing Jesus in a patch of dirt.

I think the patterns it makes is not in our faces or in our eyes or burned into our skin; it's softly ground into our person, into our behavior and characteristics, like a complex, three-dimentional puzzle by our gestures and our voices and every muscle that moves. They study brains to see if they can read the memories there, if like the rings of a tree one can read the history of a human in the mosaics of neurons, and perhaps. Perhaps that twitch is crafted to cover up a different twitch spawned long ago because of a mishap, and perhaps the story is written in our brains. But rather than that,

it is a wonder, isn't it? To be surrounded by all these people, to be enveloped in all this history, the pain and the laughs and the fortunes. The way the old woman by the bus stop hunches her shoulders, the corner of the mouth of the cashier, the hitch at the end of specific words when the tourist asks you for directions. It is all a part of their history, like hieroglyphs of their lives, that although we can't read them clearly, they all together form the weave that is the fate of our world - the past, the present, the future.

It is overwhelming. I saw this woman speak of her story, and all of this sort of washed over me, and I realized, it's not strange that I'm sometimes reluctant to go outside, to be among people even if I don't have to interact. They are interacting with me, all of them, with every movement and every glimmer of their eyes. I'm in a constant flow of information, like a million radio waves in foreign languages passing through me on every frequency, from every direction. And filtering it out is such a painful process, in many different ways. For who wouldn't want to try to understand the history of everything?

Half-Life Challenge Accepted

Memories blur together and if I kept a diary at the time (I kept one sporadically) it's not here, so I have to estimate.

Half my life ago I was in 4th grade, no? Kids older than me by two years were scary adults with mysterious minds that should be avoided, because I figured they were smarted than me somehow but couldn't decide how, and adults were npc:s in the mmorpg called life, and they were only there so you could figure out how to manipulate them into giving you the quest item. Most of the time they were no help at all and just repeated inane conversation-lines.

Half my life ago is when boys started treating me as "girl" instead of "person" and I fell into a depression over that that lasts to this day. It's when my rivalry with my Nemesis hit its peak, and when I lost basically all of my friends, although part of it was because I rather was alone than hung out with their stupid new friends. I have one friend left from then, and I would give my life for him.

Half my life ago is probably when my ugly little first stories came to be in text-form. They had existed in my head long before that, but writing was too much of a pain before Computer made its entrance into my life. They were mostly plagiarisms and stolen characters, but gotta start somewhere. It's also when I began learning English.

I fought with my brother, no double there's some scribbled "I hate my brother" somewhere on a wall or piece of paper from then. There are many of those. It's also somewhere around this time that my mother got cancer the second time, but I know that only because I've been told; I have no memories of that. None, except that dad brought home our cat, my cat, then because he thought mom would like it. Other than that it's all a big blank.

Ah my cat. I miss him like crazy. I'd kill for the chance to go back in time and have him sleep on my face one more time, us breathing each others breaths. Now I feel like crying. Bye.

Nature vs Nurture

Woke up in a horrible mood today. Wonder how those things work, those days that you've somehow decided for one emotion from waking up to going to bed, for no apparant reason. It's like laughing to make yourself happy or acting scared to become scared.

There's a manga/anime called Death Note. Awesome. Anyway, in part of it the main character makes sure he loses memory of everything he's done that far in the story, so that he can lie believably and not get caught. But the point of his plan is that he will regain his memory later on. He doesn't know that will happen. He doesn't even know if he'll still want the same things. But he has such faith in himself, he goes through with it.

These two things connect as follows: if you can manipulate so well your own emotions, and yourself, if it is so easy to change yourself, how easy wouldn't it be for others to change you? I wonder all this often, yet at the same time I have the feeling of that it's not true; that you, that I, would still remain no matter what. I believe in DNA, not environment. I believe in self, regardless of circumstances. "I" am as much a fluid concept as it is absolutely set in stone. The world exists to me only because I believe in it. And you can take the world from me, but I will still remain.

My virtue will be Faith.

In the Head of Iceye 01

On selves...
Is the only solution to not being depressed to think shiny bright thoughts? Is the only escape from turning into Eyore to transform yourself into the princess in Enchanted? To erase a part of yourself to be able to survive? We do that. Some guy cut off his own arm with an swiss army knife to survive. Just the same, we can cut off parts of our mental selves. But just as every last cell within me screams of raging protests if I hold a blade close to my skin, regardless if it's sharpened, the mere thought of cutting off a part of myself... Is this bravery or folly?

On memories...
I just watched an episode of House where a man thought the woman he was in love with was engaged to his brother and the emotions were so strong he had heartattacks whenever she came near. He decided to let the doctors remove his memories - everything from birth to present - to get rid of the memory of her, and he refused to tell her the truth. It's tv, I know. Still. How? If there is a soul my soul would still be me if my memories were gone. If behavior is programmed in the DNA, I would still be me if my memories were gone. I believe in both these. And sometimes I think I should forget some things and get on with my life. But to forget, to lose control, to let go, is the most frightening thing I can think of.

On love...
Is love the feeling of being able to give your life for someone? Then I've been in love. Is love the feeling of being prepared to share the rest of your life with someone? Then I've been in love. I've been in love if love is to want to kill, maim and destroy whoever hurts the person. If love is to be jealous of all attention given to someone else. If love is to stop and be amazed at how beautiful someone is even though you've seen him/her a hundred times before. If love is to have pain shoot through your body at the thought of losing this person to anyone or anything. If love is selfless, comfortable, protective, possessive, admiring and painful - if love is the ability to project, deflect, deny and doubt - then I have been in love. I am in love. Am I not?
Love is not beginning, nor end. It is a part of the cycle like everything else. What matters most to me? What are my true intentions?