You’ll never get to sleep

av den 10. mai 2017

Her kommer et utkast til et dikt jeg skrev ned i den fine, grønne notatboka mi for nesten en måned siden, nærmere sagt 10. mai. Av en eller annen merkelig grunn kommer de fleste ideene, utkastene eller diktene mine på engelsk nå for tiden. Skal ikke se bortifra at jeg prøver å lage en norsk versjon snart, men for nå legger jeg ut dette:

You’ll never get to sleep,
your beating heart,
this city, a breathing beast,
never sleeping, never dying,
always changing:

What once was is not anymore, down the street
there was a pizza restaurant, now a burger take-out,
the little corner cafe has turned into a shop for e-cigarettes,
this city of mine, always changing,
new parkways, new parks,
new plants, new flowers,
old houses being teared down,
the past, our common (hi)story
ripped to pieces,
always tearing down
what we love the most, the stories of the past
turns into rubble and dust, everything in these walls,
all that once was, people that lived, whole lives,
in these old wood buildings
built by weary and old work-men’s hands,
one nail and rivet at a time,
wood on wood, planks carved out,

their handprints of the past
all over

I will not be silenced

av den 27. februar 2017

Det går lenge mellom hver gang jeg skriver dikt nå, men når jeg først kommer inn i flyten, og lar fingrene treffe tastaturet, uten å tenke, da kommer det mange ord til overflaten, og mye jeg ønsker å formidle. Dette diktet ble skrevet på cirka 10 minutter i går kveld, og er faktisk skrevet på engelsk, fordi det var slik det dukket opp i hodet mitt. Det er ikke redigert, finpusset eller endret på noen måte, men akkurat slik det kom.

I was born with a never-ending flame
inside of me, striving
to raise my voice, never silenced
hope, breathing through my lungs, every heartbeat
as living proof
of what the world will try to silence,
but I will not, hear me out:
I will not be silenced,
I will not change,
I will not give in,
I will not shut my mouth,
I will not and shall not
relinquish my right as a girl
to speak up!
Cause, I am here to stay, to breathe
eighty springs,
summers,
falls and winters,
never letting them
to fight the fires
within my soul:

Always burn,

always.

Life: Press Start To Continue

av den 17. november 2015

If I told you I’d never thought about it

You would have to call me a liar

 

And I’ll tell you how my gun would fire

but I never really talk about it

 

Dreaming always help me linger

cause I’ll never really pull the trigger

 

So dark and willing once I awake

Seems I never learn from mistake

 

If I told you I’d never thought about it

You should know that I’m a liar

 

cause there is just one thing that I must admit

I am the afthermath of a misfire

 

Another day goes by in this fragile mind

When I’m obscured and blind,

by the devil inside

I see lightning strike and then hope will shine

 

So when you ask me why

I don’t fear my own death

and how love got me fighting

for my next breath

 

I will hold you tight

and caress your skin

This, for me, is when life begins

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kill The Creator

av den 27. oktober 2015

Prisoner of the mind

I see true colours, yet I’m blind

Prisoner of the mind

Collapsing sanity within this design

Envision of the friendly foe

Misconception will surely grow

Prisoner of my mind

Am I the fictious brother?

In the prison of no other

Deceitful tales from the back of my head

He is not our brother, the voices said

This is the end

Bring back my one true friend

Return to me with love again

From tainted mind I must ascend

For here I stand

Among trustful lies I cannot comprehend

Release me from imprisonment 

Embrace your schizophrenic nature

Fragmentation of the cosmic soul

One is a friend and the other’s a faker 

Within I shall find the subconscious traitor

the time has come to kill the creator

touché

Mea memoriae

av den 10. august 2014

I do not know where I am or where I have ended up. All I know is that I meant something to someone.

To them.

This is how my story starts. I see my life in replay and my childhood flies by. In particular, one memory is stronger than the others. There is a woman with blond hair and a floral dress, who laughs with a crystal clear laughter. She smiles when I come running towards her, and I throw myself into her embrace. The embrace only lasts for a few seconds, but I remember this incident as one of my earliest childhood memories. I cannot have been more than two and a half, yet this woman was one of the dearest things I had.

At the time her face was bright, I remember how she smiled and how she hugged me when I needed it. One day her smile was no longer there, her skin was pale, she was thin, her hands were shaking. When I tried to hug her, it smelled strongly of alcohol. One day when my father had picked me up from kindergarten, she lied on the couch with bottles of beer and wine all over the place. I ran up to her and tried to wake her up, but I failed. I shaked her shoulders, almost hit her in the face, but she did not wake up. My father tried to pull me away, at first he did not manage, but then he took a strong grip around me and sat me down in my bedroom. I remember my father trying to wake up my mother several times, he tried to talk to her, but it did not work. I did not know then that she was gone, but the years that has gone by afterwards, I have been told what really happened.

It feels a long time ago, as if all that is left of her is a shadow, or not even that. She is not here anymore, and it feels like I am not either. I remember when this woman took me to my very first day of preschool. She held my hand and squeezed it hard. I think she must have been more nervous than me. When we were separated she hugged me, and I could see that her lip trembled.

“It is all good. Just go,” she said and smiled nervously.

I smiled back and waved before I ran to the other children. It was suddenly quiet when I came running into the classroom. I could not really see why. Some children in the back row giggled quietly as they glanced mischievously at me. I stood there for a while, until I saw an empty desk and sat down. The clock on the wall ticked slowly towards half past eight when the hour was supposed to start. I was quickly pulled out of my own thoughts, when the teacher came in and closed the door behind her.

“Good morning, children,” she greeted as she looked over the class.

“Today is your first day at school, and I think that we should use this day to get to know each other.”

I noticed that the children around me began to talk. I looked up at the teacher; she stood there quietly and shushed on the children who were yelling.

“Now it is enough with all this trouble,” she shushed.

“Let us rather make a name game, and get to know each other.”

All the children went out on the floor and stood in a ring. I remember it particularly well. I came next to a girl with pigtails and a bright red dress. She took my hand and smiled. I smiled back.

“Everyone should say their names one by one,” the teacher said:
“Ine, Henriette, Ole, Anna Bella, Sophie, Nils, Thomas …”

I remember my stomach knotted up, when it was approaching my turn. My hands began to tremble, I tried as best I could to keep it in check. I would really not want anyone to notice that I was nervous. The teacher pulled me abruptly out of my own thoughts again.

“May you say your name?” she asked friendly.

“Who, what, I …?” I replied, confused.
The other children started laughing. The teacher nodded at me.

“Yes, it is your turn.”

As I was saying my name, I did not produce a sound. My voice was gone. I tried to clear my throat and cough, but it did not come back. Several of the children broke out into laughter.

Fifteen years later we met again at a reunion party. They recognised me, but did not meet my gaze. Some of them came up to me and it is rare I see adult men to tears, but it happened that is.

“I am truly sorry for everything and wish I could take it back, but I cannot. Nonetheless, I hope you will forgive me,” they said in turn.

I must admit I was overwhelmed and I really had not expected them to come over to ask for forgiveness. I had one voice inside that said that I should forgive them, yet there was another voice that said I should not. I thanked them for their words and never saw them again. In a way I thought it was too late coming back fifteen years later, because they wanted to be friends. On the other hand, I think it was brave of them. The rest of the evening I hung out with my real friends; those who always had been there for me and who supported me through the ups and downs.

It was night. The party was long over, and I went out on the porch with a glass of champagne in my left hand. The moon shone bright and clear. I sipped champagne and thought of the evening’s events. How my life had been and what I had achieved. Even with my experiences I could feel tingling in my body of bliss. Whether it only lasted for a few seconds, I knew that I had meant something to someone.

To them.

I do not know where I am or where I have ended up. I do not know whether I am alive or whether I am dead. My eyes are open and I see the world in a whole new perspective. The voices are silent. It is bright.

I wake up and it is dark. I hear the song from my own funeral. Every bench in the church is full of people who once meant something to me, and people I have meant something to. I do not know how long I have been here, or how long it will be. There is no time or place.

The sound of singing grows from the floor and up in every corner of the church, through their tear-stained faces and down in my cabin. The priest faces the assembly. I see all the flowers, eyes closing; I hear the sound of singing being slowly erased.