Dakka dakka.

Geneva, Jakarta, Yokohama.

Summer nights can be many things. They can be warm. They can be humid. They can be bright as the winter noon. And they can be full of dreams.

Even as we try to stifle our plans, they only grow stronger in my head. By now they have taken on an almost physical shape, looking like skylines of the cities where we might roam in a month or half a life.

My dreams are of that life, more often than I’m usually willing to admit. At night, when everything can become rational, because all our actions are strong-willed and guiding in dreams, we conquer everything we’ve ever talked of.

Floorboards with our footprints, and smaller footprints next to ours. A garden harvested just this morning. A dining table set for a family. A car that can take us anywhere, the portal we never had.

I know it’s cheesy and romantic to a fault.

But how can we expect love if we don’t dare to act on the instincts of our beating hearts?


An unrelated event.

There is pleasure in the pathless woods, giving me a sense of belonging, even in this element where I have no home. The strong scent of the pines, wet from November rain, fills me with memories of family gatherings at Christmas. My sister, my mother; the well-prepared duck, caramel potatoes; presents given and received.

It’s a funny thing, the memory. How it bends and stretches, forever finding different situations to fit the one you’re in. The way a simple scent of pine can send your mind racing back years, decades. Into different settings, a different life almost. Letting you travel through time and space in no time and in any space, until you find the memory you most want to stay on—and only then it fails you, when you realise a memory is not the present, and though you feel like you can navigate through it, its sensations will only stay with you for a fleeting moment, until a gust of wind forces drops of water from the pines down onto your unprotected head.

‘Trance’ might be the closest thing we have to a describing concept of the feeling of being lost in thought. Not unlike the sensation as you’re guided into hypnosis, breathing first slowly, then with an ease as if you’re not even breathing at all. Your muscles tensing up for a moment, before letting go, making you wonder afterwards how you even managed to stay upright—was that just your insistent spine keeping your head above ground? And finally the closing of your eyes, either metaphorically or physically, as your mind wanders off on its own while your legs are planted in the damp moss with all the other trunks.

What separates human beings from other animals, I believe, is this ability to escape the present and become overwhelmed by something outside the frame of the picture.

What separates human beings from human beings is what place we go to.

I’m not suggesting that animals have no imagination. I have seen my dear dog have what I can only explain as dreams, with its legs running, its mouth making little sounds, while deep in sleep. But as soon as the animal that is not human wakes up, it seems destined to face the world it’s in.

The human being is able to look at the world and say: not today, and close its eyes, going to a different place altogether while staying put. It’s possible for me, on a lonely day, to hug the trunk of a pine tree, and believing this piece of nature to be my mother. That, to me, is a human skill. And one that we’ve only just begun to explore.

Spaces left.

There’s always a you and a me in all this mess. Sometimes there even really isyou. But the me, the I, is forever floating, fleeting, unable to be pinned down by nails, hands, grips or the sky darkening above.

I could say it is a search, but that implies action. I could say it is a question, but that implies asking. I could say it was delusion, but I’m far too clear-headed for that.

And so I keep not watering my plants. And I keep not combing my hair. Because I hope some other I will take care of all that. And so I let the future come and go, as unnoticed as a gust of wind, only rattling the leaves on trees we don’t speak of.

But even the wind is never more invisible than the broken fingers on the trees, and the future creates ruptures in the magic field we call worldlife. There’s just a simple choice to not notice before it’s gone.

There are bread crumbs left from all the yous. They show up in every word; both the real yous and the imagined ones. But I never dare to follow them back; fear I might see what I left behind. Or some other I.

Think nothing of me tonight, except for the motions of my fingers, as they reach for something resembling truth.

When did the air become impenetrable to advances? When did the great horn of heaven stop playing its tune for man?

There once was a dream of an endless ocean, and I could sail my ship forever, forever bathed in sunlight and joy, direct or reflected off the silver moon.

The ocean has dried out.

The ocean has dried out.


I bury myself. I… bury myself. I bury myself in a landscape. A landscape of dreams. I bury myself in a landscape of dreams. Escaping the too real. Escaping the too real reality, I bury myself in a landscape of dreams. I build the walls. I think, and I build. I think, I build. My thinking is my building. My thoughts are my buildings. I build the thoughts as I think them. A landscape of dreams, built on thoughts alone. A wall looking like nothing and everything. A wall translucent and impenetrable. Escaping the too real reality, I bury myself in a landscape of dreams, behind the walls my thoughts erected, I look out on a world that can’t reach me. I sit in silence, staring, bewildered at the too real outside, counting humans as I count sheep, but unable to sleep, unable to dream inside a dream. Layers on layers of walls form. Layers on end. There are no bricks. No ground to shake underneath. I sit in silence, staring, bewildered, building on with every thought. Higher, stronger. Escaping the too real. Inventing games, records. New high score. New record of height. As when I was a child, growing higher, stronger, measured on the wall. New record. New high score. New record of height. Getting close to the wall. Escaping the too real, falling into the wall. Making new landscapes in-between the walls. Burying myself in a landscape of dreams. No people. Dreams. No people. Walls. No people. Thoughts. No people. Escaping the too real. Turning walls into friends. Friends protect, I know. Friends keep the too real away. Friends translucent and impenetrable. Friends in need. Friends in need, escaping the too real in landscapes of dreams. In landscapes of dreams. Friends escaping. Behind walls, translucent and impenetrable. Friends escaping to landscapes of dreams. Friends escaping the too real.

I know how this story ends.

What if I told you I have visions too.

That my dreams are not just dreams. That my memories are not of the past.

Would you believe me, or would you run away screaming? Thinking I was a madman; for telling you such nonsense; for keeping on living when I know what I know.

There are missing details to everything we see. I remember exactly how your lips felt against mine in our first kiss a year from now. I recall vividly how the blood stained the snow when I laid out in the woods, shot through the heart 13 years from now. But I never noticed where we were, when I touched your chin, looked into your eyes and kissed you with a smile. And though I spun my head around and around, I never saw who shot me down.

I have found that I am starting to remove myself from the world. Or, actually, redirect my attention to the world, might be a more precise phrasing. Since I found out what was going on: that my memories are yet to happen, I have been frustrated with all the things I don’t know about the future, rather than the things I do, and I have stopped looking at what’s in front of me; the glow in your eyes, the street lamps at night, the moving shadow as the train rides through the city at sunset. These things that used to be my entire world, these visions right in front of me, have lost their potency. I know what they will offer me, I know what they have to say.

The details. I have redirected my attention to all the details that usually go forgotten. Today I studied your windowsill instead of just glancing at it, and I learned that you’d rather have the things you want, than have things be the way you want them to be.

There has always been this feeling in my life that I never experienced anything new. But I just didn’t know where to look. Until now. The muddy details are where the truths are hidden, where understanding is possible. I have forever chased the things in front of me, when I should have looked sideways, should have smelled the air and asked a question about a common circumstance. I forgot to see when I looked, because I knew it all. I had seen it all before. It was just a rerun.

But the power of a rerun lies not in simple recognition, but in expansion of the already-known as we mix in our new impressions.

What was once a simple story becomes an atmosphere; an opportunity for action and telling – for being. It becomes a much larger medium for meaning. Whatever reason lies hidden in the details will open itself up when I look at it. It’s to the point where I can flip and turn the details, like sandy stones on a beach, and find the answers to my questions on their hidden undersides.

So when you kiss me, I will see you as clearly as ever, for your lips and your eyes, your hair, your fingers, the fragrance you always carry around in the wind, they have been imprinted in me since I first saw you in a dream.

But I will see so much more than that.

Things beginning with I.

I had a dream of cities, of going places and meeting people. I had a dream of dining with parents and lovers, and I had a dream of dying. And then another. And another. I have a habit of being shot through the heart these nights. I’m not trained in the arts of the meanings of dreams, so I can only take from them what impression they leave in me. I wake up not frightened, not angry, not scared. I simply wake up and realize I wasn’t shot after all. I turn around and fall asleep again. I sometimes sigh. I sometimes cry – but whether they’re tears of relief or something more sinister I can’t tell. But I acknowledge that I can keep on living for another day, even if I will have to go on living with the knowledge that I felt perfectly fine dying in that moment. It was bound to come at some point, I suppose. I’ve always dared death to come at me with all it’s got.

The most lasting impression of those dreams is a sense of calmness. I’m just perfectly okay with dying in those moments, and I guess it… comforts me, but at the same time it frightens me somewhat. It makes me question my life: do I have nothing that I really want to stay alive for? Am I just ready to go if it is to be? I don’t know. I’ve always maintained that death is just that: death. But at the same time it’s DEATH. It’s nothing, it’s no-more. And that’s what’s so confusing. There’s really nothing you can do about it, and I’m tired of this world trying to cure every disease, trying to keep us alive for as long as possible. Why? Why should we live to be a hundred years old if our bodies just weren’t wired that way? We will see more happy moments the longer we live, surely, but if we die we simply won’t know of the moments to come. There’s everything to gain by living, but nothing to lose by dying.

I took a walk in the sunset tonight, past the church, down through the city and all the way to the castle yard, with its flowers and trees, paths and rivers. I had music in my ears when I walked to it, but I always remove my headphones when I walk into the yard, preferring to listen to the silence and birds. Preferring indeed to feel how the outside world can keep my thoughts at bay. I miss the end of bridges, the open oceans from my home town. I miss sitting down with my feet in the water, becoming part of that big blue that stretches all around the world. I miss trying to feel the currents of Japan from Denmark.

I miss my stupid belief in coherence, in some sort of holism. I’m faced with the task of specializing in the field of Philosophy. And I’m at that point where every new option sounds extremely good to me. I swear, I feel like a first-year student again, believing everything I hear, thinking to myself: “wow!” I will try to pull myself together and find ways to weave through these options so I can end up with a line of enquiry that I find interesting in two years as well as in two weeks. I just hate decisions. My most convincing argument for free will is that there is no way anyone or anything could have designed me to dodge decisions this often. Decisions, situations, you name it, I dodge it. I get so tired of myself every now and then.

The sky seems more full of airplanes these days. That tends to happen whenever I really begin to feel stuck in a place and look for new experiences, new challenges. I really hope my plan to go to Austria next summer will come through. Otherwise I’ll have to just go and do something on my own. I have to get away. I have to see something different. Mountains, languages I don’t speak, food I’ve never tasted, bad music that becomes good for its novelty. I need something new.

So baby, what we’ve got
has lately not been enough.

(Kings of Convenience: Stay Out of Trouble) It seems like forever since I last quoted a song in a blog post. I really ought to make some form of change inside my apartment. If nothing else then just tidy up the place; get rid of the things I’ve come to realize that I don’t ever use. I always bring too many things with me when I move. It’s silly, really, and now I’m just stuck with them. I never manage to take a deep, hard look at everything and throw the things away that have no use to me. I don’t know if I’m sentimental to things. I guess I am. I can think of a hundred ways some little piece of cardboard might come in handy in the future … distant future. So I won’t get rid of it. Well enough, I say, enough with this nonsense!

I’ve been thinking a lot about my wardrobe this past week. I think I’m ready to shift into a more “mature” style. I’ve come to like shirts, I just don’t own a whole bunch of them. I’m very much a t-shirt and sweatshirt guy. Comfort and band merchandise throughout. But I think part of this new-me project – that I’m apparently in the midst of – consists of changing into a person that looks more like someone with an actual future. Maybe that way I can forge a lasting impression on myself so I won’t have to constantly doubt whether or not I’m cut out for life. If I look the part, then hey: it must be true!

Passion and its brother hate, they come and go
It could easily be made to stay for longer though
Many people play this game so willingly
Do I have to be like them, or be lonely?

Love is no big truth
Driven by our genes, we are simple selfish beings
A symphony that’s you
Joyously awaking the ignorant and sleeping

Another view
Of what there is to it
Getting me through it

(Kings of Convenience: Love is No Big Truth) You told me about the time you stood right behind Kings of Convenience at a concert with some other band and were too afraid to go talk to them. Paralysis. That’s what I feel around most people. There were people in the castle yard which made me take a huge detour around that section of the yard so I wouldn’t have to somehow end up in some imagined situation where I would have to talk to them because hey that would just be the end of the world am I right? See why I hate myself? God I’m so bad at anything “social”. And yet the novel I’m writing is going to be composed of a lot of the social moments from my life. They’re always the ones that stick out, which should spur me on, but I guess that’s also part of the reason why I’m afraid of the social gathering. Even though I rarely end up taking center stage, I’m always certain that I will end up making a fool of myself. I’m always certain that I won’t fit in, and when you enter society with that mindset, then damn right, you won’t fit in, or blend in, or be anything with the word “in” in it. You won’t even be in trouble. You’ll just be – on the outskirts of society, looking in from the outside. You’ll be me.

Floating in space, holding hands, lost forever.

Do you ever feel like life wasn’t meant for you, and wonder what destiny could belong to you instead? Do you even believe in destiny? I see the world as rhythm; my own contribution missing the beat. I feel so out-of-place almost anywhere I go. I feel like a fictive character gazing up at the night sky, wondering: is my real home out there somewhere? I know the answer, and I’m disheartened. I’ve always longed to be special. Special in all other ways than the ways I am. Would I feel the same if I was special in some of the other ways? Looking at the stars is one thing; I haven’t dreamt of them for a long time now. I’m still breathing. I’m still breathing here. Awake and breathing. I’m still closing my eyes with fair intentions. But I need convincing. I need stars in my eyes and my heart. I need the Moon to stay full for a week. Guide me. How small is man. How small is man cruising in space. Imagine it. Imagine planets. Big. Suns. Bigger. Galaxies. Immense. Universe. Inconceivable. Man. Nothing. Imagine floating in space, holding hands, lost forever. Would it be dark? How soon? Would not the Sun light up for us, just us. Would we not die floating before we reached the edge of darkness? Or will the lack of light-reflecting objects give us the clearest view of the Sun as a circle and nothing more than that? Will only we be visible? If so I am in. You’re all I want to look at. I can do without rivers and deers, as long as I can float in your doe-eyes forever. There are so many things I don’t know, and so few questions I ask. Always innuendos only. Always slightly clouded. I saw your happiness today and I thought back to ours, many years ago now. Both a start and an ending. An unlikely warning. But I’m breathing. And I’m listening to my heart, as I once listened to yours. In a different bed in the same room. And my eyes are failing me now, closing, like I closed them for you. But years pass faster than days now, and wherever I look I’m blinded by the fog, standing strong and tall as a wall around my small part of the world. There are boundaries to dreams. I’m learning. Learning about the possibilities, the impossibilities, the boundaries. Uncertain as to whether I’m actually learning about myself. Often feel like I know all there is to know, and just don’t know what to do with that knowledge. I know my shortcomings, but I know nothing of the tools to help me. I know nothing about the sincerity behind your smiling lips. I know nothing about your touch. Know only what I imagine. Know only that you fill me with the warmth of a Sun a thousand times bigger than ours. Know only that I’m bursting. Know only that. I used to dream of the future, just as I used to dream of the past, believing both directions to be equally close to reality. Now all my dreams are of some wicked present. Something that is if I make it so. I don’t even know what I want with relationships. I want the freedom to stop. Stop it all. I want the world to blow up and take me with it with no regrets. But I want to hold your hand while it does. I want our shared breath to be the last thing that is shredded to pieces. Do you see?