28. November 2017
Before I begin you should know that this is a work of fiction. None of what you are about to read is true. They say it is all in my head and I am about to uncover the truth by binding it to paper. Writing a letter is a dying art they say. Pure and simple. It has been months since we saw each other last. A lot has changed and for reasons I no longer comprehend we have lost touch. Though I still remember your wintry-cold hands on my collarbone. Tell me, dear friend, what is new with you? I fear...
03. November 2017
On occasion I write standing up. When I feel physically insecure it strengthens me to know that I can still bear my own weight. Like this instance. I peer outside my window to witness the leaves turn yellow and red. It has been an unsatisfying summer leaving the lushness of green to rot instead of evolving it into brisk, dried petals of impending renewal. But there are some reds and yellows and their rustling calms me as I sway a little. I like the autumn. It is now that I put thoughts in order...
22. Oktober 2017
My friend the flamingo ruffles his feathers every day. He counts them and puts them in order. Then he gears up to face the music. Strutting around has taken its toll. He appears older than he is. His feathers have lost their pearly shine. I can no longer bear to look at him. One last time I try to brush my neck against his. I feel him close his eyes in our embrace. This time he lets go first. His heart beats too fast so I take a step back. He avoids my gaze and I quackingly strut away, beak...
14. September 2017
Accumulation. Of bits and bobs throughout life. Some of us resist the urge to collect more than others. I have been trying to be extra good – now that I am what I always wanted to be: ''creatively active.'' So I collected one pile of useless papers with very important information on them, like personal stuff, and put them in a disorganised array of piles in various corners of my apartment. And tonight I went outside and set fire to them. Not before stuffing them into an Ikea tin bin. I struck...
06. August 2017
My dear friend and former mentor once quite adamantly voiced his discomfort for my writing. I had often reminisced about our connection formed back when I considered him my teacher. Now he was sitting in front of me and the shift in topics denounced a new era: the era of friendship. And as storytellers go we were talking about work. I told him about my screenplay ''The Pigment'' which I had just finished and what I was planning to write next. Hurdles leading up to directing have always been...
02. Juli 2017
What is left of us when we stop communicating via cyberspace? Where do we turn to when all breaks down and we're seeking solace? Kindness. Love? There is still the child in me that sits dead-centre in the one road winding through my village. I am playing with dust and a horseshoe. My best friend was a farmer's son. We'd climb up into trees - one child per tree. Once in position we'd connect via string and two cans. It was difficult to keep the string taut and not to fall out of the tree in the...
25. Juni 2017
Travelling is fuel. Going places and returning home is what gives life meaning and incidently makes for a good story. Right now I am balancing on one foot. A tiny piece of grit sticks to the sole and irritates me. The ground is uneven. Evil ground. A wrinkled lady in Chanel and an oversized dog are crossing through my field of vision. She is considerately paying no attention to my attempt at gracefulness. Her dog the size of a bear moves at glacial pace so not to overtake his beloved owner. I...
12. Juni 2017
When did you last watch your lover undress before you? Was she aware you were watching her? When she caught your gaze she responded with her cheekiest smile. A total show-off because she knew how the all-revealing sight of her aroused you. I am cramped into a tiny cabin. The darkly painted wooden walls are closing in around me and I begin to wonder if the plate carrying the copulating couple is indeed revolving or if instead the ring of cabins is revolving around its centre. My gaze wanders to...
27. Mai 2017
When I was twenty lurching out of a bar at six in the morning the act usually coincided with first onsets of hungover and a general dislike for anything bright. I would be proud of myself having made it through the night celebrating life with the wickedly beautiful. Bravely still on my hellishly sore feet rather kicking those gorgeous high heels and walking on shattered glass than taking another shod step. Copious amounts of alcohol had just been consumed in an attempt to push boundaries of...
16. Mai 2017
Once there was a boy who cut the lawn in front of a house. Up on the first floor there worked a girl who did not notice him. One day the boy cut the girl's name into the lawn. She did not begin to love him anyhow. This was many years ago. Today two Belgians, an Icelandic and I stand in front of the house. This is an old people's home now. Stéfan, the Icelandic, closes with a faint smile. He has grown into a handsome man. The sun is shining so thoroughly that I forget how far North I actually...

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