It's been a relatively effective day concerning writing. I am still enjoying movie manuscripts immensely.
But it's autumn, and autumn is the season of reflection. I waded through some old pictures sitting alone in my room. Thinking back, a whole year... its gone so fast but still, it feels like a hundred years ago. That life... no, those lives are already being wrapped in the mist of memories. It's strange... its like it happened to two entierly different people.
These pictures are taken with almost exactly a year in between. The first while I lived in Sweden, and the other after I moved to Bergen. Difference right? Of course, I have dyed my hair back to black, but everything's still changed.
I suppose it is to be expected, time moves, people change... It's just, it feels like I've lost a friend. A dear friend. I think I have. I miss her. I don't believe it but I miss those days. The parties, the darkness, the loneliness, the strangeness, the illness. Those were the days where I learned to live for the moment, for the second. To throw time straight out the window and concentrate on the feelings, on the here and now. There was nothing called time, really. I was free in an odd sort of way. I went where I wanted, I did what I wanted, I said and meant what I wanted. I owed no one anything. I came really close to myself. It feels like I lost that somewhere along the way.
It feels like I tied myself down again after having fought so hard to get free.
Still. I am still learning. I am still walking and even if it feels like my breath is restricted, I'm also learning to slow down. Here the days don't go by. You don't give tomorrow a thought. It doesn't exist. There is no use thinking about it, because it's already planned for you, so you learn to just let it happen.
Thinking back... thinking back. Moving away from home to a strange country. Getting to know people. Taking weird jobs all over the place to earn money. All the walks. The long walks in the forests where I got lost hours on end. All the absurd love stories. Screaming at each other drunkenly on the tram, running away, threatening to jump from bridges. Getting bodily carried away. Concerts, hot and sweaty. Late sunny mornings with coffee and backrubs. Parties, fights, laughter, tears and depression.
Finding friends, figuring out they aren't all that friendly, backstabbing and getting backstabbed. Crowded streets, waiting on benches, taking the wrong tram and ending up a new place. The dark nights, christmas lights and smell of roasted nuts and candied apples.
Then moving back to Norway, away from everything I learned to love despite the hate. Back to a country had no desire to live in, to friends I lost a long time ago. The collective, with all the strange people. Li the Chinese, Ulvár and Haltir the Icelandic, Simon, Stefan and Christian the Swedish. Our parties, teasing at the kitchentable, loud arguments, gaming together, visiting each other. Me and Ulvár got close, we had a little hedgehog together that lived underneath the verandah. And then the jogs, and of course my job that I loved as much as I hated. Shitty payed, shitty hours, but the passion for it was great. I got there half an hour before I was to start every day just to talk with them, buy coffee, wander around, chatting. They were all the social connection I got. The parties were bad, I ended up at the hospital, bleeding and beaten. Catastrophic love again. Why do I always fall in love with bastards who use me and throw me away like a dirty napkin?
And then... then time stopped for a while before I came here to Bergen. A new chapter.
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