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Photos, Writings

a Sweltering Summer


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I came naked out of the shower when I noticed;
the first rays of summer-sun shone onto my bed.
As if they were a blanket, I crawled underneath them and let their gentle warmth caress my body.
This body which had yearned for their touch throughout a winter’s eternity.
As she spread her energy all over me, I let out a tender tear. One filled up with all that longing, released into a powerful sensation of belonging.
Little did I know, that summer would be…

At last,
rain.
I noticed today that the leaves on the branches were bleached
that their comrades had fallen to the ground
A dry summer leads to preterm death
I learned that the sun can take lives
just as it gives life
that everything in abundance,
causes imbalance
and so I greet rain when nature yearns for it
Just as I release a drop of my own
when my sun-deprived body is touched by the first rays of summer-sun

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stories, Writings

Human-waste


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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?

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A Stockholm Chimera


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There lies peace in this morning, it is nesting on the streets, huddling together with relief in a solemn embrace.
Our beautiful city is a memory now, it exists in a thousands of digital and analogue photo albums, and in the minds of those who wandered these streets.
Some of them, or many rather, are not here to testify what once was, for they are dead. Minds who can’t speak of how bustling this city was during summer nor how quiet it was during winter.
They’ll never be able to say how many of the cherry trees actually blossomed in Kungsträdgården this summer, nor will any survivors, for the trees, just as the people, are gone. They were bombed before they had the chance to blossom into life.

In the quiet of the truce and in the wait for the end of this war, I think to myself – can one tell if the morning has broken if one wasn’t there to see the sun rupture the sky in half?
How can we know for sure that war on the opposite end of our globe is happening, if we have not heard the machine-guns shatter bodies into a million pieces? More importantly, who takes the time to care?

These are the types of thoughts I surround myself with. They are my best friends at night for they make everything seem mythical and diminutive, but during daytime they become my enemies. They give me hope in that that I want to believe, eagerly so, in humankind, and that we aren’t forgotten. This is why they are my enemies – hope in this situation is a curse.

stories, Writings

The Stained Man – a short story


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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

Writings

I Should Have Gone Yesterday


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My brother is sitting to my left and my sister to my right. We’re in the car on our way to Östersund and it is the Summer of 2015. Our father is driving and mom is in the passengers seat. It’s like the good old days during summer when we all went on family-trips together to our paternal grandpa and grandma. We always thought the 600K journey was worth it because we knew how much we would enjoy being there. We knew we would get to swim in the ice-cold water by their pier, listen to grandpa’s mesmerizing storytelling, eat grandmas food, sleep in the basement with timber beams over her heads, read Kalle Anka till’ we fell asleep and have grandma and grandpa kiss us goodnight. 
This time it’s different. The overall mood in the car is gloomy. It’s as if we are followed by a black cloud, hovering, only above our car. See, this time it’s time for us to kiss grandma goodnight. Forever. 
I’m sitting quietly hoping we will make it in time. When death is creeping up on someone it can strike faster than expected.
I don’t have to keep my hopes up for very long because after ten minutes on the road, my fathers’ phone rings.
He picks up and I hear it’s my uncle Mats, who is with grandma. Next thing I know my father stops the car, leans over the steering wheel and repeats loudly to himself “I should have gone yesterday, I should have gone yesterday, I should have gone yesterday”. Meanwhile he utters those words his body is shaking. 
 It’s not so much my grandmother’s death that evokes feelings in me the most, because she’s been sick for a long time, but it’s the tears that come streaming down from my father’s face. My brilliant, wise, happy father, now grief-struck to his bones.
As on a queue all family members hands reach for dad. I look to my right only to see silent tears run down my sisters face and I know she feels what I feel. So I hug her, to comfort each other in our father’s pain. 
We are all hit by the realization of that this is the end of an era. Grandpa will never tell us his stories again and grandma will never share her cooking with us. And so we sit in silence and remember what was and never will be again.

 

Writings

Teenage Misconception


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Her mama questions her

“What you need that for?”

“Your skin is perfect”

Another teenage-exploration mama thinks to herself.

Daughter, seemingly ashamed, takes the facial scrub into the bathroom

Dabs her face wet

Looks at her dry skin

Applies the scrub

And scrubs

Scrubs

And she scrubs

Skin falls down into the sink

Scrubs, harder

It doesn’t disappear

Scrubs

Blood splatter on white porcelain

Like a bleeding swan

Tears up

Scrubs

She panics

How can it not disappear?!

Scrubs ferociously 

Tears, blood, skin, chemicals blended into a devil’s stew

Scrubs

Scrubs 

Scrubs

Stops.

Looks at herself in the mirror

The realization hits her harder than anything she’s ever experienced

It won’t disappear

The fat is still there.

She whispers

“I’ll be fat forever”

Writings

Shimmery shining doom


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“Maybe” I told him “- it’s midwinter now, hopefully the frosty glitter on the freezing trees will last until January.”

“Have you seen the way it sparkles at night? How the glitter plays in the light from the lampposts?” He did not answer. “Hello?”

“Yes, yes I have seen it, a long time ago.”

“But don’t you want to see it again?”

“It’s already fading. The temperature will rise and everything will melt, fall to the ground and be sucked up by the trees and the leaves again.”

His monologue started in adagio and continued in presto, his words, pumping out of him, harder and harder.

“And the glitter will never last until January, don’t you see it?! The glitter never lasts. It does not matter how much we try, the glitter will never last. It will melt and so will we or at least everything that was ever us. And when it happens we will be lost and sucked up by the memories we created together – “ he paused, to look at me.

“You’re not talking about shimmering trees any longer.”

He looked guilty, and when he spoke again his tone was soft, as if he tried to sooth me before I even knew I had to be soothed.

“We can’t go on like this. The magic, or the glitter, or whatever you want to call it, is lost. We’ve lost it.”

He walked up and put his hands on my cheeks, kissing me, and those lips, those lips sparked memories from our three years together. Right there and then I was cut off, laying bleeding on the floor, torn apart from the only world I knew. A world I was not welcome in any longer.

When January came I saw he was right, my tears were the only things glittering in the light.