An Atlantic Prayer.

What to call this… confusion, perhaps. I’m at a loss these days. I’m not making any progress on my BA project. I’m not taking any strides towards my project in Philosophy and Literature. I’m not even writing anything of remote interest to the new online publication I’m a founding member of. I’m just listening to music and watching TV shows. Finally getting a Netflix account has – by far – been the worst idea I’ve had since I finished high school. My days are drifting away with Mad Men on all my screens. I’ve even lost the knack for stream-of-consciousness writing that I had developed a few weeks ago.

Maybe I just need to get back to reading Kerouac again. I’m stuck somewhere in the middle of Visions of Cody, suddenly felt like it was a waste of time, stealing time from what I should really be spending my time on: studying, which I’m still not doing, now just reading a different book (The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman), watching different shows, listening to different music (right now I’m, of all things, listening to Interpol’s latest album – never thought I’d listen to it) and thinking different thoughts. Or are they the same thoughts? I don’t know. At least I’m not in love with the same girl I was in love with back then. So that’s progress. Or regress. Some kind of -gress at least.

I’m looking forward to summer and green grass. This winter has seemed long somehow. Darker, windier, colder. Probably it’s just because it’s the most recent. The most recent is always the one that leaves the strongest impression. The same with music. I’m terrible at making favorite-lists since whichever of the really good albums I’ve just listened to will always come out on top, regardless of how I ranked the albums the last time around.

Looking forward to tomorrow. Because of clothes. O so very rare I’ve looked forward to anything related to clothes, but tomorrow Italians Do It Better will go live with their store with lots and lots and lots of new and old stuff. And I’m getting myself a sweatshirt with a kitten on that I’ve been wanting for AGES (well, not ages – it’s only just come available in a sweatshirt-edition, it used to be a t-shirt (which I wanted, but) that only came in child sizes, and I might be skinny but I’m taller than a toddler).

The rest of this will be written under the influence of the An American Prayer album. So it might get a bit windy. Might not. But might. Hopefully I will find it in me to pull myself together with at least one of the things in front of me, instead of always just ending up here, writing about the things I don’t do, the poems I don’t write, the girls I don’t kiss, the life I don’t live. So much to do, so much time to do it – I guess I lack willpower? But I don’t think that’s it. I’m probably just not very good at channeling my will into the projects I know I should channel it into. It’s so much easier to just keep going with my own flow, and my flow has been flowing since 3rd grade when I found out I could get by without doing my homework. Such an easy childhood, never met any demands. Remember being thrown in bath fully clothed once because I didn’t want to take a shower. That’s the most discipline I’ve ever felt, and I do think it was worse for my mother than for me, throwing me in there. Worked like a charm, though. I’ve liked taking showers ever since. I hated it royally when I was a kid. Always had a problem with water, except two summers around 7-8 years old, I was the first one in the water those years, always staying in the water longer than the rest – going to the beach in the afternoon for a last dip of the day. Lost that later on again, don’t know why or how, just did. Swim so rarely now, though I still love it whenever I finally do. Being in the ocean is such a tremendous feeling, feeling overwhelmed by powers so great; the ocean is one big muscle, from the coast of Japan to California, from Portugal to New York, from Madagascar to Australia – from Thurø to Tåsinge, one big muscle pulling and pushing water to and fro, refreshing the Earth day and night. Only now, here in my bed, typing this, do I feel the immensity of the Earth’s oceans. Only now do I appreciate the blue planet. Only now do I know, the sea is my brother. And I need to get back to Kerouac. And I need to write. And I need to go to the sea.


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