trying to wake the dead

i've forgotten about the release that is a blog. it's been so long. i haven't really had time. it's been too much. a lot of crap and a couple of smiles in between. what suprises me is that i can deal with all of that, but when it's all over, when it finally looks like it's gonna be ok i hit the wall. the substantial is not the hardest part. when there's something that needs to be fixed, hearts in need of mending, people in need of comfort, blood to bleed - i can do that. when it's all settling i die a little bit. it's like there's something inside my body trying to get out, and i just won't let it, it's like i wanna lie down and just cry my fucking eyes out but i can't because now life is good and i need to get on with it, it's like i only live when everything is miserable, when it's bright outside i shut down. my mum visited this weekend, leaving after herself a separation anxiety that's eating me inside out. i think my bipolarity will eventually kill me. just saying.

the good, the bad and certainly the ugly

the bad things about living with mia:
- she's a giant, meaning i can not wear her clothes, while she tends to wear mine more than her own. in conclusion: instead of having two closets i've got a half.
- she snores and takes atleast three quarters of the bed. in conclusion: i don't get my beauty sleep and she is therefore the reason to my ugliness.
- she smokes a lot but never buys her own ciggies. in conclusion: she's making me her own private tobacco provider.
- she likes to clean the room when i have the day off and just wanna have a lazy day. in conclusion: she has bad timing.
- she's happy all the time. in conclusion: she makes me feel like a big blob of self pity, anger and depression.
- she makes me go to sainsbury's in my pj's when we're both too tired and lazy to buy breakfast. in conclusion: she thinks i'm her breakfast slave.

the good things about living with mia:
- she doesn't give a rat's ass if i have an afterparty even if she's got work the day after. in conclusion: she doesn't care about her job, her sleep or anything that involves the musts.
- she lets me choose the music 95% of the time. in conclusion: she has no will of her own.
- she sometimes gives me food. in conclusion: she tries to repay me for the cigarettes but doesn't exactly suceed.
- she wears the weirdest outfits including batik prints mixed with striped men's shirts that i have slept in the last three nights or so. she also says a lot of stupid stuff and come up with the most unlikely and strangest theories about everything from the earth's rotation to well god knows what. in conclusion: she's funny, especially when she doesn't realise how funny she is.

dedicated to someone i love

i got a letter today. just the envelope by itself triggered the tears, because even suppressed swedes can sometimes feel too much. i opened the letter and put it in my bag, to read it on the overground, again. the letter was from someone who know me better than i knew, better than i ever thought someone would know me. the letter was nostalgic in a sense, but in the same time it was more about the future than the past. it spoke of a time that is coming, a time of difficult decisions and with the highest of probibility a time of a lot of hurt feelings, but also a time to live and a time to dance. in a time of leopard shoes and boys that don't mean a thing and smoke and night buses, for the first time, i felt that there really is more. this is not all. there is more.

i can't answer the letter, i don't have paper and i don't have a pen, i don't even have an address, but i want you to know that i love you none the less. i love you. you know me well enough to know that i wouldn't say that if it wasn't real, if i didn't really mean it. i love the way you see people, i love the way you put words to feelings in a way everyone should envy, i love the fact that you want to be my friend. i love you with the same burning force that we both see and hear and feel in music, just like you described it. and dear friend, i have never missed you like i missed you today. know that you are important, that you are loved, that you are good. even if i'm hundreds of miles away i am still your friend and i will be until you ask me not to be. know that and follow your own advice and go after the opportunities, one day you'll be on top of the world.

the enemy

i'm gonna try to write this without sounding like the whiny little bitch that i in fact am. you see, when people's tragic backgrounds finally come out, when they're exposed after what might be years in silence, the world reacts. sometimes by backing away, flee the scene and keep away from the tragedy in a vain attempt to keep the own facade intact, and sometimes by feeling, feeling with, feeling for, feeling sorry. a fucked up background can excuse pretty much anything - sadness, anger, selfishness, vanity, self destruction. but what if you're guilty of most of the above without nothing or no one to blame? do you still deserve the sympathy? if whatever it is that haunts you isn't in anyone else but inside your own sick mind, are you still allowed these emotional crimes? no one ever hurt me badly but myself. and i keep doing it. so much that i try to keep it all away from people i meet, because if i tell the truth chances are they'll run the other way, run away from the horror that is me. that's why i don't tell you these things, not to your face, ever.

in an attempt to tip the scales

and the mirror is like, as you might have guessed, self examination or reflection in whatever form. this could be vanity or selfloathing, i know i'm guilty of both

brick lane

a bar is closed due to refurbishment, a guy looking like peter doherty in his early twenties is unlocking his bike, there's no queue in either of the bagel shops, it's slow. at rough trade a guy with horrible teeth is having a coffee. i buy franke and lcd soundsystem albums. should have bought a bag, they're just £5. i try to find tortillas, but none of the off licences have them, the fact that the cashiers always ask of my age when i buy cigarettes, tell me i look fourteen, then they try to chat me up, brings me to the conclusion that it's as standard for cashiers (and construction workers) to have pedophilic tendencies as it is for urban outfitters staff to be utterly fuckable. it's raining but i can't be bothered cause i'm not wearing any makeup and my hair looks like shit anyway. someone is smoking weed on buxton street, i can't spot them but the smell lingers in the air all the way down to vallance road. i think i should take a shower now.

day 07 - a song that reminds you of a certain event

dreaming of you - the coral. it reminds me of the afterparty to the dirty pretty things show in stockholm back in 2008. it reminds me of performing it on stage in hungary. it reminds me of a night out in gothenburg. that song has so many events tied to it, it's insane.