1. Self-portrait

    She sees lonely stars on a bright night, tell her to look away only when they’re about to fade.
    She chases fireflies through a moonless cover, tell her to be still only when bees are humming.
    She spins around in the dim light, tell her to smile only when the sun rise.


  2. Travel diary

    Det er så stille, men likevel så bråkete. 1, 2, 3… jeg trekker pusten. Ømme muskler, kaldsvette, jeg klarer ikke å holde meg i ro. Men det er så vanskelig å bevege på seg, for aldri har det revet i meg så mye før. Det er ingen plasser å gjemme seg, man kan ikke flykte. Noe kan man løpe fra, men ikke dette. Jeg rister på hodet, nei, dette er vanskeligere. Jeg som alltid tar den letteste utveien, det er kanskje på tide. At det går an, sier jeg. Men kjære deg, alt sitter her oppe, sier han og peker fingeren mot hodet. Jeg ler fordi jeg vet at det er sant, men om det bare hadde vært så enkelt. 1, 2, 3…

    It’s quiet, yet noisy. 1, 2, 3… I draw a breath. Sore muscles, cold sweat, I can’t be still. It’s hard to move, it’s never teared me up like this before. There’s nowhere to hide, you can’t run. You can run from certain things, but not this. I shake my head, no, this is harder. I usually take the easiest way out, maybe it’s time. How is it even possible, I burst out. But dear, everything’s taking place right here, he says and points a finger to my head. I laugh because I know it’s true, but if it was just that simple. 1, 2, 3…


  3. Self-portrait

    Worn out.


  4. Travel diary

    Hi. I’m here and I’m home.
    I’ve been in Tuscany for the last couple of weeks and it showed me that it is possible
    to survive horrible thunderstorms and that bruschetta tastes better when it’s home-made.

    But in the end, like always, I know I’m going to long for the crowded narrow
    streets in Lucca, living in a house from the 16th century and those sociable friendly lizards.



  5. Self-portrait

    If you told me I could float upwards into the ground, I would believe you. I would feel comfort from each gentle grasp by tentacles of grass as they pulled me in. I would not fear breathing. I would take a deep earthy breath from the garden of your good mourning. I will promise you one final look of love before flowers sprout from my eyes, sown from seeds of foolishness and hope.
    - written by Jack -