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Kolla bruden ovanför. Jag avlider.

Det är ju nästan så att jag måste ha rött hår igen.

Men vafan, så som jag kämpat för att håret ska bli blondt.

Gud vad ska jag ta mig till?

Blondt/dreads eller rött/dreads?

Åh. Mitt stackars hår.

Jag passar ju faktiskt i rött hår.. lite?

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och det som behövdes
var ett snedsteg på fyllan
en natt tillsammans
ett sms och ett samtal
för mycket

för att jag skulle se
förstå
inse

hur mycket du
inte
är för mig
hur hjärtat inte längre
slår extraslag för dig
hur allt bara är
precis som det ska vara

och kanske var det
det sämsta valet vi kunde göra
men jag tror
att det var det bästa
ändå

I thought I knew how it felt. I thought I had memorized the feeling of not being happy, of wanting more, of being ajar. I thought I had settled for this second skin; the acceptance that sometimes it just isn’t a choice. It is a luxury to be able to feel what you wish to feel, and more often than not, life cannot afford such ease.

The problem with being a dreamer, a writer, a poet, is not that they feel more than everyone else. It is that they cannot escape from it. All the pain, ache and explosions,- others can dismiss as merely a feeling that cannot be contained. But for us, there are endless words to describe the way we feel, to actualize the feeling, to give it existence, to gravitate them. The irresistible impulse to label everything, to get to the bottom of every unexplainable feeling is crippling. To live as a writer is non-apologetic. Everywhere that you try to escape to, is aesthetically numb. Even when you do not see what reminds you of it, words are running madness inside your head.

This is about existing within a world where love is not on my side. This is about struggling every day to stay afloat. This is about my greatest love story. I thought I knew how it felt. I had made a pact with myself that I have no other choice. But that doesn’t mean it makes it any easier to live with. Heartstrings are broken whenever I think to myself, we may be so right for each other, but there will never be a way to find out. So many things remind me of you that not a day goes by that I am able to be completely content. The problem with being a dreamer, is that I feel too much for my own good. When I think about us, I feel dismantled, familiar, damaged and every imaginable adjective in between. There is no other person as capable as you to destruct, love and forgive me. You may never understand it, but it is just a truth that I must live with.

The idea of being happy is extraordinary. Sometimes I dream of not feeling. Of just existing. Of not being physically able to hurt inside. I did not choose to be a person that feels too much, or someone that is compelled to write word after word after word. Every time I think I could be content, something thrusts me back into a higher feeling that I cannot control. I thought I knew how it felt, how everything is, how people are, but I cannot will my heart to think the same.

Försöker på något mirakulöst sätt att rädda mitt hår. Jag kan ju inte gå runt med pissgult hår? Nej. Det räcker med att alla löven färgas Röda, gula och orangea nu om hösten. Fick ett tips på jobbet om en hårfärg från Loreal som jag har slängt i håret nu. Hoppas håret blir mer askfärgat nu. Låter säkert! not.
Men det kan väl inte bli värre än innan?