Tag Archives: Writing

A Conversation 

“Why did you start doing this?”

“I guess I wanted to say something”

“So say it.”

“I don’t know how.”

“What changed?”

“I wanted to tell them that life is beautiful. That it all meant something. Now I’m no longer sure it does.”

“So tell them that.”

“But they may judge me. Or worse, they may get upset.”

“The truth isn’t always pretty.”

“I know that. I guess I just wanted to…”

“You wanted to what?”

“I’m don’t know. What if this just isn’t for me? Writing, I mean.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

“I guess so.”

“So tell them.”

“Tell them what?”

“That maybe life isn’t as beautiful as you thought it were.”

“Maybe life isn’t as beautiful as I thought it were.”

“Good. Now, why not?”

“Because I am in the biggest city in Sweden with two million people and I still feel lonely.”

“And that makes life not beautiful?”

“It’s not that it’s not beautiful, it’s just that it’s lonely sometimes.”

“Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“You wrote “sometimes”. You could’ve written life is lonely always but you didn’t.”

“I guess I did.”

“And you know what?”

“What?”

“You said it. You told the truth. Good for you. That’s the first step. Now you can tell them other things that are true.”

“What makes you so sure of this?”

“Because I’m you. You’re having a conversation with yourself, buddy.”

“I really fucking hate you sometimes.”

“I really don’t give a shit. I got you to write.”

My Dearest Maria

As I wake up, I’m on the floor in my room. I can’t remember how I got there. There’s a slight pain in my back so maybe I fell somehow off my bed. Another panic-attack; no memory of what I did before, or during it. Somewhere in my mind I find I’m happy I’m alone. Fumbling for my bed for support I realize I can’t get up.

I quite enjoy the view from the floor. There’s frames to look at with the “kind-notes”, a piece of paper were people are supposed to write nice things about you. Even from here I can see the writings. “Always happy!”, “Spreads joy!”, “Beautiful smile!”, “I love your laugh!”, Absolutely wonderful!”

I laugh to myself.

My eyes travel to my medicine box. Anti-depressants, anxiolytic-pills, benzo-like pills for emergencies. I curse my ability to laugh easily. What’s the happy girl to do when she’s not spreading joy, but waking up from a panic attack?

Also, what is she to do when she has been isolating herself for the past months, losing a close friend because of it, because she can’t fulfill the requirements she has now set up for herself? Because when she’s not the happy, joy-spreading person she used to be (or she really is, she doesn’t know), she hides. She doesn’t answer the messages from the people she loves. She doesn’t answer when they call. She doesn’t do what she loves.
She writes in third person because it is painful to apply this to herself.

The wall to my right is the wall of important things; souvenirs from Romania, post-its I have gotten, flight-tickets. The picture of us. The one I received after Christmas and never thanked you for. We look happy. Actually happy. (I can’t tell whether you really were happy or not. We never talked about such things.) Somewhere inside my head it clicked. I do not understand “the concept of being happy”, but I remember I was happy there with you.

“Is there anybody in here who has someone they look up to?”
My hand is lifted up somehow.
The lecturer points at me. “Yes! You at the back! What is her or his name?”
I clear my throat. “Maria”
“And what makes her someone you look up to?”
“She’s real.”
He nods.
“She’s genuine. She’s caring. If she is mad at God, she is, and that’s okay. She’s one of my favorite people in this world.”

I guess what I am trying to say is that I am sorry for not writing you. And thank you for that picture. I called a friend when everything had clicked, and I asked for help. He got me stable, got me to sit on my bed. Talked to me until I was calm. Because apparently, I don’t always have to be happy, Maria. 

Just know that I still think about you a lot and that I love you.

All my love, Sara

Runnin’ through town

Like a manic, like a clown
I was running for life all through town.

What the chaser did not know,
slithering throat here now is my fun.

Now he’s leaping, not worth keeping,
shame he messed ’round with someone like me.

And he’s screaming, he is crying
did he actually think I was lying?

Now he’s dead, no more dread,
let’s go running through town all again.

Hopefully that’ll be enough

I loved you today.
Your hair was a mess
and your eyes were unfocused
and you pulled me closer.

I loved you yesterday.
Your hair was flatter
at least to some extent.
I talked too much
you didn’t talk at all,
and you didn’t answer the door
when I came to my senses.

I will love you tomorrow.
You don’t think about your hair
the way I do.
And you will be angry
and happy.
Pull me close
just to push me away.

But I will love you.

So it goes

I wanted to tell you
that you weren’t alone,
and that it would get better.
All those things
you’re supposed to say
at three in the morning
when nothing is right.
But I poured you another drink instead.
Somehow you seemed more grateful.

Would it make a difference?

What if we didn’t love the wrong people during the holidays?

What if we let people in, instead of shutting them out?

What if we realized how messed up the world is? Even at this very moment?

Would our fridge still be full of food we are not going to finish?

Would you tell me that it didn’t matter?

Would you tell me that everything is going to be alright?

Would you believe it?

What if you asked a stranger “how are you?”?
What if they told you they weren’t alright?
What if you asked a friend?
What if they told you they are alright, but you know better?
What if you asked me?
What if, even with a cross around my neck, I told you I’m not?

Not my responsibility, but

“It’s not your responsibility.”, my mother tells me as I talk to him at one o’clock in the morning, trying to calm him down in an anxiety attack.

“We’re just talking”, I say.

“Do you feel responsible?” my grandfather asks, watching me tap my fingers repeatedly on the table after hanging up.
“I’m just making sure he gets his medicine.”, I say.

Am I doing something wrong? Am I missing something? Isn’t our job in this world to see one another, take care of one another?

I just don’t know.

It is not my responsibility, but if I don’t do it, I am not sure he will survive.