stories

Daily, stories, Writings

Sizzling Connection


No Comments

Between two souls lie a path
it’s riddled with obstacles
they hold hands and on the path they
play
jump
run
dodge to the ground
one looks forward
one looks backward
so to keep an eye open for all that may intervene
they hord experiences along the way
picking fruits from each other’s brains
They’re feasting off of each other
Cherishing the moment they found one another
the ones they’re in, the ones that will come

One day one of the souls hopes it’s hallucinating
for in the horizon the path is sectioning
From forces, as well as reasons, unbeknownst to both
they’re forced into separation
Not by will for who wants to end such a thrill?
Rather, an inkling of something undeclared
perhaps a future not shared

They cry and grasp for each other
scream and shout as their fingers disentangle

Behind them the path dissolves
onto their own they go

In the torture they find comfort
if they met by chance ones
it may happen twice, if not;

Photos, stories, Writings

Stockholm Charades


No Comments

Summer flies to foreign countries

IMG_0951

the spirits of autumn settle in

IMG_0986

People, kissed by a healing wind

IMG_1127

waiting for the harsh winter to begin

IMG_1136

as the sun enters hibernation

IMG_1154

Swedes work on their winter accusations

IMG_1188

but in their minds live warm memories of Summer
fragments that will keep them together

stories, Writings

Human-waste


No Comments

A man on the subway
Sunken cheeks, skinny bones,
White tufts of hair on his head
Blue, coming on grey, eyes
Carved roads on his forehead –
marks from all the times he’s reacted to something
Laughinkles next to his eyes
and I see
I see his stories playing before his eyes
a life lived
stories to be told
Veins in the color of the ocean run over his hands
as if each and everyone of them resembles a decision
I start talking to him
but he can’t hear me
he waves with his fragile hand over his ears
showing me he’s unable
It bothers me to the extent that I become teary-eyed
For here is another human with wisdom and stories that I won’t take part of,
nor will the world
How much human-waste is there in the world?
How many learnings and wisdom is buried with their owners?

stories, Writings

Leaking Love


No Comments

I am leaking love
it’s in my footprints
Smudging it into the wooden floors when I walk
It’s invisible only to you
You struggle your way out of bed
you put your feet down on it
For every step you take now,
I’ll be hurting
I say a sweet goodmorning
You smile in response
While you head off for your morning routine
you stomp around
I’m leaking
I give you a compliment under teary eyes
Visible even to you
Not that you take notice
You smile and tell me you love me
a habit, not the truth
You walk out the door
headed to wherever my love has not leaked
Only there are you free

Photos, stories, Writings

Nature, a Double-Edged Sword


No Comments

She lures you in, seduces you with brisk air and long-sought-after golden rays of sun. She sprinkles the streets in leaves which hold all spectrums of colors, she hypnotizes you. Making one believe that life is a walk in a magical park where nothing evil can happen.

Processed with VSCOcam with c9 preset

She shows off all her best sides, fooling you into believing that the sky is an ever-changing canvas which she paints, only for you.

img_2749

Now that she has your attention, she surprises you by showing another side of her, one that is seldom seen. The bittersweet combination of pastel clouds and teasing mirroring, which makes you want to jump into the ice-cold water. Along with colossal, uncanny bird’s nests hovering above ground. Gruesome and fair, all at once.

img_2748Dystopian clouds roll in over the sky and in over your mind. Leaving you with an eerie feeling of that perhaps the world is not as picturesque as it seemed. Could that be nature’s gift and curse? Its’ tendency to build castles in the air full of hopes, dreams and fantasies, only to, in the next moment, tear them apart, filling the air with reality.

Processed with VSCOcam with c8 preset

Reminding you of how nothing is ever constant, except from change.

stories, Writings

The Stained Man – a short story


No Comments

It’s a solemn morning for the man who is busy pouring his coffee down the drain.
He is mad, for all he can see is the stain, the stain on his white shirt which, in his mind, represents his life.
He mutters to himself as he watches the rain trickle down the window pane; “I’m nothing but a stain on a white shirt. A blob that no one likes, something that sticks out and can’t be left unnoticed. A freak in a heap of normalities, stiletto heals and formalities.”
He makes no attempt to wash it off, instead he unbuttons the shirt, letting his belly hang out over his suit-pants and tosses it on the floor. The phone rings and reveals the name of the person calling, “Samantha Miller”.
“Not today Samantha. Not today,” he whispers as he puts his phone into sleep-mode.
What Samantha, his boss of 15 years, doesn’t know is that Bob Litter has remained by his sink, overlooking the apartments in front of him, for 2 hours. Ever since he mindlessly stained himself with coffee he has been standing there, contemplating, letting his workshift start without him for the first time in, well, 15 years.

“Bob the Blob”
“Hey Bob, did you litter yourself?!”
“Bobby the Flobby!”
“Bob the Sob”
“Litter is Bitter!”
He acts it out, imitates the voices of the past and the now, all the disgraceful nicknames that have poured over him throughout his life, in school, at work, at camp. Samantha says they are uttered from his co-workers with love and sarcasm, that they would never have done it if there were an ounce of seriousness to them. He finds that hard to believe.
He is fat, he is bald and he has dark circles around his eyes, hanging like bags of the sickly skin which a nearly dead elderly person acquires.
“They are right. Somehow they’ve made me believe it. Turned me into it. Turned me into the stain I never knew I was. I will die anyway, might as well get on with it. When death seems more fun than life, it has to be the right choice, right?”
No one will answer him, for he has no confidants, he has no wife, no husband, no children, no friends, no living family, except from a cousin he’s never met, he is alone. In retrospect I can see how it happened, that he involuntarily chose loneliness, he let others get to him and beat him down inch by inch. He lost his fighting-spirit when his long-sought-after ex had a miscarriage and she left him. It was during the time when he still had hair, was less fat and had just landed his job as a banking official, when life was fun.

He picks up the white shirt with a coffee-stain on it and puts it on again.
“I should die as the stain I am,” he says a he laughs and sobs, laughs and sobs in a spectrum of indecisive emotions.
His index finger reaches around the trigger of the gun that has been lying in front of him since he went to get it just after the stain arose. He is disturbed by the flashing light from his phone, it reads “Samantha Miller”. He takes the gun and shoots the phone, two shots, glass flying, metal cracking, one shot, Bob is dead, blood flying, no one is crying.

It actually pains me, as death, to see this. What a lonesome soul, what a beautiful mind that so few got to get to know. What I know though that Bob didn’t know, is that Samantha Miller called him, not to bark at him for being late but for getting the door code to his housing estate.
For outside his whole team of banking officials awaited him to leave for work. How wonderful they looked in their suits, party-hats and colorful helium-balloons. Today was Bob’s 64th birthday. Wait, something is happening. The police has knocked down Bob’s door, Samantha Miller has called them in sheer concern for the man who has never been late for work.

The police finds the man on the floor in his kitchen, seemingly floating on a stain of blood.

– J