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I write to forget. I write over what I write so that the words become illegible. That way, I write to hide. I write to leave behind things that I do not want to remember. But it feels like every day when I wake up, I have this headache and this urge to just destroy the world. I have so much inside of my skin, and the only way that I have found to relieve it all is to write. I write something every hour, every day. It just happens. Most of it is about how I don’t know where I’m going, or how I don’t know what I am becoming. Most of it is just a desperate bid to not really be myself anymore.
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Is anyone really who they say they are? I do not know. I read a lot, so if you were to pass by me, you would see me either walking with a book in my hand or standing still and engrossed in a particular passage. Sometimes, I like to write letters to friends when I am waiting for a bus or looking out of the window in class. I do not have very many friends, but I cherish the few that I do have. Were I to meet you, I would most likely be a little helpless. You would have to show me around my own city, for all of my memories would unwind like a child with a cassette tape.
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Q: What is your favourite form of communication?
Kisses, love poetry and letters. Sometimes, when the wind touches my fingers, we speak. I like drawing pictures of people but I am not that good. But the best kind of communications are in small, stolen glances.
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January has been like one long-held breath. I’ve watched from afar as people tear each other into the sea. My fingers are stained purple today, even in careful steps I have been kissed by bees. I’ve thought about tender words, what to say to the mother of a rose as I held her broken child in the palm of my hand. There is no way to move quietly away from your life without leaving fingerprints, scratch marks. The nights have been quiet torture. I cannot scream for fear of waking other souls. I cannot scream for fear of flooding the libraries that I’ve slowly collected inside of myself. And so I find myself in the middle of the afternoon, sipping the air and hoping that soon I can find a way to escape this place. Straight and fast. Right into the side of a truck jackknifed in the middle of a highway. Past the railroad track and the murky lake and the sleeping people. In the dead of night, that is when this prolonged moment will eventually end.
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Q: What do you like to eat?
Colour.
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I once knew a girl who read bedtime stories to passing strangers. She would stand in the middle of town each night with a story book in her hands and read out loud. At first people were surprised. You could even say that they thought she was crazy. Only one or two lingered like ink drops diffusing in water. But soon, with each passing night and each passing week, people brought their chairs and their children to listen. Sometimes, the girl’s stories were filled with fear. The people of the town held their children and cradled them. They learned how to hold on. Sometimes, the girl’s stories were illusions that the people could touch with their hands. She would stand and speak so loudly, so clearly. And they listened each night, for they were left with warm hearts and minds ready for sleep.
(härifrån)
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