aldrig aldrig ensam

i know i am late. extremely late. several months late. that the hype is long gone. but first of all, i didn't see this show (i'm waywayway too indie for public tv goddamnit) and second - i never had the intention of posting this on my blog, especially not since this is a british blog and posting a swedish song on it seems quite contradictory, but today, while i was on the hammersmith & city line back to dear old whitechapel and my ipod randomly selected this tune i realized that i had no choice but to post it. why? because it's fucking genius, that's why.

the albion sails on course

it chars my heart to always hear you calling
calling for the good old days
cause there were no good old days
these are the good old days

the libertines '10

the art of nonfeeling

i've always been quite good at it, turning away from what hurts, closing my eyes and shutting my mind, blocking it, shutting down completely. usually because it feels like the easy way out. because it feels like letting something in or out will start a chain reaction and there's nothing scarier than being overwhelmed by what's rough, what haunts you, whatever that might be. so i've shut down all my life, swallowed my fears, shutting the demons up. because i've grown into a master of nonfeeling the current situation is impossible to cope with. i go from numb to tears in seconds, too salty french fries starts it off and i can't control it. it's impossible. because this time it's not me. it's not my demons. demons that have grown familiar, that i can keep in leash. demons that are possible to keep out, or at least at an approved sound level. i have somehow learned to live with my own dark thoughts. now, how do i live with someone else's?

she, who used to be close to me, was now almost a stranger. part of the life i left behind, because some of it forced the complete shutdown, because some of it drew out the demons in the first place. by blocking that out i also blocked her out. because it was easier for me. it's always what's easier for me. we are an egotistical race indeed.

the worst part is it won't sink in, i don't believe it, or rather i do believe it, i've heard the words been said and you don't joke about these things, i do believe it, i know it's true, but it won't get to me. it's still too surreal. and i dread the day it will finally hit me. it's not even that i can't understand it, i can very well, perhaps too well, and i respect it too. if you see no other way out, if you are that deep down that you can only see one escape then i respect it, but the situation of being left behind, of dealing with her choice is not a pleasant one. i think i realize now that it doesn't happen to you, it happens to the people around you. or maybe i say that because it's easier to play the victim in this case. now this won't be a sentimental note over an unwanted life, a life that burned out rather than faded away. you were always in a rush. i just wish i'd said that in person.

bengali in platforms (in lack of better)

next to a bengali off licence is a mcdonalds, a man with a lazy eye and a dog walks past the restaurant windows and smiles at me, a bank is squeazed between a liquor store and what used to be a pub, coffee for a pound is expensive and rent over 200 is waste, some don't even buy their own fags, some people might call it ugly, say it looks like the kind of place where you get raped and mugged and possibly even killed, some people see the junkies on the street and say that's how you'll end up if you stay there for too long, some people even say it's far away, far away from their reality maybe but not from mine, to me it's a place i'd like to stay for a long long time, the night bus go through the entire area, connecting it, the smell of gasoline, dirt and indian curries, a costume boy looking more than a bit lost next to a man in holey boots and a big knitted sweater, two dogs starting a fight, a boy shouting something at me, tired mothers, tired fathers, tired children and amongst all this walk the most beautiful boys in all of london town.

desperation and a troubled mind

peppermint tea in the middle of the night, a throat that burns as desire on a saturday night, i took a shower this morning and cried my way through it, the pain was unbearable, hot flushes like i'm in the middle of my menopause, fuck it, i'm in london and i can't even walk down the stairs, not even take a shower, without wanting to throw myself off our balcony.

the search for a flat goes on, been looking mainly to the east where a promise of dancing through the night at warehouse parties, drinking strongbow from bottles the size only coke comes in at home and discussing philosophy until birds start singing and the sun is rising over hackney streets, random dancing with french guys and trying to escape jamaican guys with gold teeth desperately telling you that apparently you've 'got a pretty face'. maybe it's true what they say about favourite places, that the mists of nostalgia make the memory of them so much better than the fatal time when reality hits you. i've lost my love for camden lock, the frenetic asians offering fried chicken although you've walked past them a thousand times before and told them that you don't things with a heartbeat, the tourists walking in their own tourist pace - taking up the left side on the escalators, pointing out every single leather piece and actually waiting for the green light, i even loath the average leatherjacked camden beau, with his messy hair and second hand shirt, his way of acting nonchalant is wearing thin when you see the same desperation in his eyes as every other man and woman. only by night does camden still hold a shed of its former mystery, only then does the strange creatures leave their homes, only then do they mix with the rest of us, only then does the possibility of finding someone with something to say, something that actually matters, occur. and here i am, ranting over the commerciality when i plan to go to westminster abbey on wednesday like a proper tourist.