You got a face with a view.

Apart from the sun and the moon, those star-crossed lovers reigning over each of their domains, the brightest object on the sky these weeks is Mars, the red planet of dust and dreams, hanging low on the southern night sky of the Northern hemisphere. If our eyes could see far enough, we could see rovers working tirelessly as the only agent lifeform on the surface. If our eyes could see far enough, we could see aching hearts in real time.

The heatwave continues on. Sweden’s forests are on fire. There’s red in every direction, even painted on the underbelly of the clouds above as the daylight fades to the horizon.

I battled with nature on equal footing today, swimming in the open ocean where the modern human is as vulnerable as it’s always been. Only arms and legs to propel, only eyes to see, with the big blue hiding enough wonder to inspire monsters and continents for the ones who dare exploring far from shore.

I keep looking for branches to lead me to you, as if I’m a shadowtail, able to travel between the four worlds and reach your harbor in the blink of an eye. But my hands can only feel the unbending fabric of the world in view when I place my palms against it.

I hear you in songs and I read you in books. And I admit I’ve become infatuated with all that you are, both real and myth and the parts I can only describe as magic. I tried to learn your tricks, uncover your secrets, but they only left me twice as tied to you as I was before.

I’m just an animal looking for a home. If someone asks, this is where I’ll be.


Blues are just watercolours.

Green fields yellowing in the drought, yellow fields whitening. Private swimmingpool unused in the outskirts of the road, lying as the fatamorgana of a dormant oasis in the middle of the desert, not yet active for the taking, not quite there yet. But close. So close. See it for only a stretch of time, ten metres at 26 km/h. A fleeting glimpse of the most immediate cure for this unbearable heat beating down on my back. And then it’s gone. And then it might as well have been a dream or any other kind of make-believe. And I might just as well have been lifting you in that water, holding you by your waist and letting you drop softly down against me. It’s the magic of the human mind that every wild idea can assume a convincing shape. Sometimes what’s real and what’s imagined gets twisted in my head and so I just have to award reality to it all. Everything happens, in some way or other. Everything can be felt, even the things that don’t happen. Especially the things that don’t happen. I think my most constant feeling is of the minutes we’re not spending together. They dig into my skin, unnoticed at first, just slowly gathering as events that might have been, then twisting as a knife, drawing my blood from within this beating heart that’s been following your rhythm since our first mutual beat. And it feels as if there’s no cure, as if these darkest moments will become the new normal. But then the world opens when I’m on my bike, traversing the landscape through these newly formed deserts and their brick and mortar oases. My head clears like the sky, and I come back to why I keep coming back to you, to all the positives of you that far outweigh this clouded mind that sometimes seems like the only weather forecast worth studying. I come back to realise that blues are just watercolours, and when applying them to the world they will be spread transparently thin. If we open our eyes, the warm colours still shine through. And I open my arms, smilingly expecting you.


Haley Heyndrickx played an amazing set, just as I had hoped for, on the best stage of the festival, at the slot my buddy and I have come to know as the Julia Holter slot. Early morning in the middle of the festival, in the cool shade of Gloria, which quickly turns into a heated area as the songs progress, suitable for the most intensely introspective experiences of music. She captivated the room, making people stand on their toes for the last spoken lines of her songs, falling hand-clenching to the floor on their flat feet once the guitar rung out. Young lovers kissing in the corners and kissing right in front of the stage. The age presidents of the festival shedding a tear over the continuous talent that keeps forming in front of their eyes year after year at this very stage. But of course, this year, me at home instead of in front of that stage.

There’s always the post-Roskilde blues, the days after the festival when you get back home to the normal life, typically less hectic than usual in the summer break season. Rarely there are any plans set in stone for the week after Roskilde, other than getting back on your feet, literally and figuratively, and assessing in which ways your life changed this year. It’s been so long since I wasn’t at the Roskilde Festival, 2011, that I had forgotten the post-Roskilde blues hit just as hard for the ones who didn’t go but wanted to.

It seems my plans come crumbling down this month.

Is this what it means to be an adult? That the real world hits you. I don’t want to be an adult. I never did. I don’t think I ever will. I fiercely dislike responsibility, plans, structure, money. I wasn’t made for the adult world. I was hardly made for the young adult world.

And what sucks is that I know I can tune myself into it. I can put on a mask and pretend to be an adult, and I will be accepted as such. And I will land the job of my dreams. And I will be comfortably affluent. I can do that. I can use my acting skills to make those things come true. And lots of people will be proud of me. But they’ll proud of me for reasons I despise. And I’ll despise myself and the mask I’m wearing.

I’ve only ever wanted love. Now I’ve found it, but apparently I can’t have it. Circumstances. I feel like circumstances are a big part of the adult world. The way I see it though, circumstances are the least adult thing in the world. “Circumstances” is the lack of resilience to find a solution to a problem. Circumstances is the bad excuse for lack of will or lack of want.

It was because of circumstances I didn’t attend Roskilde this year. And I’m regretting my foolishness, knowing I’ve missed out on an experience I would have kept with me for the rest of my life, regardless of whatever tiny problems it might have caused for my other adult plans.

It’ll be because of circumstances if you don’t let me visit your part of the world before summer is over. And we’ll be regretting that foolishness. We’ll miss out on an experience to keep with us for the rest of our lives, only risking the most minor of issues along the way.

If I ever said a prayer, it was for you to change your mind and be less adult, and instead be more wanting.

If I ever said a prayer, it was for us.

Dance with me.

The sky looked like the cover of Innerspeaker, the clouds in formation as if the same picture had been echoed all through the Northern Hemisphere, stopping and beginning anew indefinitely. I don’t know what that phenomenon is called, though I’m fond of meteorological phenomena. I remember looking at the clouds in my childhood. I could never quite make them out to be animals or solid shapes the way other kids could. In the same way I’ve never been able to decipher the constellations of the night sky however much I’m otherwise able to lose myself in that sight. I rarely mix my vision with my imagination, as if the true sight hinders my creativity. It’s when I close my eyes that my mind runs to our future, feeling your hand in mine as we walk through life, seeing behind my closed eyelids our kids growing up. When I open my eyes, all I can see is you, in the present, with your dark eyes in front of mine. And I’m unable to imagine, unable to be afraid. All I can think about is how my heart beats faster when you’re near it. Closing my eyes again, I can feel that it’s been much too long now since my heart has been beating at that pace. Our days are like that sky today, they’re echoes of each other. An echo we started a year ago, and keep nurturing, because it keeps us close to that feeling of opening our eyes to become released from the unrealness of the imagination, and instead finding the other set of eyes only centimeters away.

Daylight won’t stop the flashing lights
Feels like a thousand years have gone by without you
I miss someone like you
I want to tell you secret things
But my lips won’t say anything that makes sense

I want to run to you
But my legs won’t respond
I want to know exactly what you are
If you’ll come dance with me
I think you will like my moves
If you’ll get next to me
I will have nothing left to prove

Here I am, there you are
Just inches away
But still too far

Look in my eyes
You see the reflection of you
In me, on me, my eyes
I have nothing left to prove

I want to run to you
But my legs won’t respond
I want to know exactly what you are
If you’ll come dance with me
I think you will like my moves
If you’ll get next to me
I will have nothing left to prove

Here I am, there you are
There’s nothing left between us
So dance with me
Dance with me

(Bear in Heaven: “Reflection of You”, I Love You, It’s Cool)


Blue midnight train ride, just for the sake of the line. You ask me where I’ve come from, I ask you where you’re going. The concession stand is empty, it’s been dried out three years. But we still keep on checking it, abandoning our abandoned hope. The world is waking up, sun rising beneath the bridge. It’s dark yellow and crimson, until our windows are under water. My eyes are closed by now. I always sink into myself as we sink down. Trying to remember the last time something happened that I didn’t expect.

Blue midnight train ride, and all the hours that follow. Not a soul on this cart, with all the seats taken. The only ghost I truly know is still standing at the station. Have I gone mad, talking to strangers, when the only stranger here is me? Guessing where everyone is going based on their ticket fee. Looking for signs in this anonymous crowd, one going East, one going South. If life were just a compass, my arrow would finally stop spinning. The only ghost I truly know is still haunting my vacation.

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?

Symbolic disorder.

I found a blood-red petal at the foot of my bed, and I judge it either to have flown in through the window on a stray gust of wind, or to have been laid carefully by your wandering ghost that’s still roaming these parts, or to be the simple sign of nascent love so new in existence it’s still too new for me to recognise.

Sometimes explanations are remarkable only in their limitations of explaining.

And sometimes a blood-red petal at the foot of the bed is just a blood-red petal at the foot of the bed.

And sometimes it’s the beginning or the end.