Twenty-five thousand red leaves on the street
weathered and worn down with tire marks
blazing autumnal traces of trails through
yet another seasonal change
and I stand left without a chance
half a world away
and never close enough
to close my lips around your smile


It’s all vision.

Choosing is a matter of seeing, and seeing is a matter of believing. So maybe my problem is I don’t believe in the things I should be seeing, leaving me nothing to choose from.

What I did see today was autumn falling to the ground, nature’s palette of rustic colors painting a patterned blanket underneath the trees, as I strolled through the cemetery park, closing in on the city with its noisy cars and noisy people.

My headphones died last week, and I’m suddenly experiencing all the sounds I’ve been able to shield myself off from until now. It’s not that I dislike the sounds of the world. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to live in a movie, and a movie needs a soundtrack.

What I did see today was a road torn up and broken, machinery exhaling dirt into the air, trying its utmost to turn the blue sky grey overhead, but losing that battle in majestic form to the burning Sun that laid its warmth on my late-summer cheeks.

My skin is really good these days. I’m in a good routine of washing my face with lukewarm water each night before bed, and using a good cream after my shower in the morning. Seasonal changes are usually the worst for my face, but so far I seem to be battling it well.

What I did see today were places I’d led you when I showed you my city and wondered when I’d show you my town. I’m still wondering about that, and I wondered, as I wandered on, if you might one day have the same impact on my experience of my town as you’ve had on my experience of my city.

I’ve never been able to determine if I’m a small-town boy or a big-city kinda guy. When I’m in the city, I miss the quietude of the town, the water, the slowness. When I’m in the town, I miss the pace of the city life, the concerts, the tall buildings for people with high hopes.

What I did see today was your picture next to my records. I don’t recall the design that made me put it there, but I haven’t moved it since, except for closer examination. There’s something homely about having you smile at me every time I put on music.

I’ve hit a rough patch of melancholic music today. Max Richter, Beach House, Nils Frahm, Mr Twin Sister. Trying out new headphones at the hifi store, I almost broke down, fifty-fifty from an experience of sound and from a heartbreaking daydream.

What I did see today were all the ways in which I’ve made room for you in my life, and the ways in which I envision making room. And I’m hanging on for dear life here, trying not to turn my tears into an environmental disaster, trying not to confuse heartache with the apocalypse.

One for my baby, and one more for the road.

Blaming the weather, you say, is another way of announcing defeat in regards to sensible clothing. But as the winter draws ever closer, winter here drawing closer since the last days of summer burned our cheeks crimson in late August, and the leaves start leaving the trees to fall to rest on the muddy ground, and the wind picks up its striking force on the unprotected parts of a forehead, it’s always hard for me to look at the world with a fashionable gaze, as if dressing up for the season would change the direction of the rain, as if a fur coat would righten up the Earth’s tilt and bring the Sun back into view from our Northern point.

No, it has nothing to do with clothing. Even hid underneath my warmest hat, I can still feel the cold shake through my human bones. It is, I realise, all about attitude to the environment, and happiness in general.

You see, walking home alone from a day without interaction, I feel the winter hit me like the darkness of space outside of our galaxy. It hits me, not just as a physical reaction, as a pain felt and localised in my material extention. But as a psychological constraint on my joints, on my thinking, forcing my lips shut tight and the short nails of my fingers clenched into my palms, leaving marks lasting even as I take off my layers indoors.

You see, walking with you by my side, or just in my thoughts, as a vibration in my pocket, as a sound in my ear, as a memory lingering from a year past, as a future and as the most real you in flesh and layers, I’m not even aware that the season has lowered the temperature and sent storms sweeping in, throwing nature to the ground to be rebuilt when spring springs, because my body keeps aflame and my smile stays wide as can go, my mind unoccupied with silly human limitations such as mortality and comfort, knowing I could never die an unhappy death with you on my wing and your eyes my last glimpse of a world that put me here to end me, only leaving me a say in how and when, and with whom.

Walking with you by my side, there’s only that. There’s only that to describe the world. Take my hand, and you won’t hear me complain ever again.

By the time it gets dark.

Dark night comes crawling in along the wet side of the road, glistening now under the heat of the street lights as if carrying on its back a million miniature crystals, raising the stakes for all souls, teasing the grandest prize for the mere cost of your life. The sidewalk has been depopulated, and only lonely soles walk the routes laid out by the city map, looking for a place to be, somewhere to escape to, other lonely soles to join in rhythm. It’s a solitary situation, and it’s quiet. It’s always quiet in solitude, as if that’s more than just a human condition, some stronger bond, a flaw in the universal production of noise, rendering the singles muted in a world of static. It’s there, even if we can’t hear it, the universe speaking through its background noise, immense forces fighting a war over areas greater than we can imagine, just imagine: we could fit 1,3 million Earth planets inside our big, red Sun. There’s no reason to be concerned with the darkness come creeping in here on a universal scale. But this is not the universal scale. This is the human condition that we’re kept in, and the darkness does form our lives, putting us to bed, deciding our diets, symbolising our deaths. The dark is the impenetrable mystery that keeps us up at night before ultimately laying us to rest. And it’s the home of longing and nostalgia, the dark matter in which I still see you clear as day.

Glimpse of you.

My chin is smooth, though I know you prefer it rugged against your skin when the lights go out and there are only tactile elements left for the orientation of body parts. But it doesn’t stop you–my smooth chin–from scaling me, moving your own soft parts against me as we turn limbs into webs and find ourselves caught in constellations we neither can nor want to break free from. I just pull you closer, my chin resting against the side of your neck, and place my mark on you.

I tremble. I feel your lips on me too.

Desire as love.

Oh, you’re gonna love me
You’re gonna wanna hurt me
And scream

(Against All Logic: “You Are Going to Love Me and Scream”)

The candles have come back. Tropical summer of 2018 drawing to a close. The day is drawing to a close. Hello darkness, my old friend. Hello candles, we’re at it again. I switch between complete solitude and extreme socializing. I have a hard time figuring out if I’ve come to love the extremes, or if I’ve always been like that. Or if, maybe, I’m simply used to them by now. Not a lot of Aristotle in this one these days.

What can truly be said of the relationship between love and desire? Except for love to be longer lasting and the morally preferred. Love being the candle, desire being the flame. Longevity versus heat. It’s so easy to burn the fingers on desire when not handled carefully. It leads you down paths that your logical sense tells you are bad, and it doesn’t care if it leaves you stranded there. It only cares to be fulfilled. To be chased down and won over. And then to do it again. And again.

I’ve always been one for desire. I don’t know what that says about me. That I like pleasure? Or that I’m a weak soul? Maybe it says that my moral compass is ill-calibrated. Or maybe I’ve just not grown quite into an adult yet. Maybe what I long for just isn’t longevity, but the fleeting moments of bliss. Maybe what has tied us together so formidably has been the string of all those fleeting moments, coupled with a deep shared understanding, and an almost mad want to be together, against all logic.

Desire is able to verge on love when it’s treated — or when it instantiates itself — as the foundation of a relationship. As that which we keep coming back to when life tries to show us the untenability of our choices. Thou shalt not look for the illogical love. Okay, but can we kiss now? Thou shalt not marry outside of your religion. Fine, so, you, me, bed, now? In the face of opposition, follow your desire, for that is a much stronger force than the weight of the opposition and the societal norms. And when done right, it’s love.

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.