This is an exploration of how writing can change your experience of the moment.

What if you are an endless combination of words, yet unheard?



Which parts of you is not recognized? What do you notice when you notice what you notice?
Can you hold yourselfe in a warm and gentle space when you notice this, please?
I can’t hold you in that space all of the time. Your fragility is to demanding. You know this.
That is the only grain of relief i can hold onto. But holding onto this hurts to much, because you will
never resolve you constant breakdownness.
If you just could take some time all alone to listen to you own hurt, i can promise you that it will
shift your space into something beautiful, enjoyable and authentic. Suddenly you are holding yourselfe
in a warm and gentle space and you get a sense of something you have always known and have cherrished,
but forgotten. But now you know how to get there, when you need to.
Really…this is all you need to know and do. The rest is just distractions, details and bullshit.
My pen keeps failing me. The frustration fuels my relentless persuite of clearity, coherance, wholeness,
and active laughable calmness.
Take that, you big fucked up world. I love you either way.


Missing yourselfe

If you miss yourselfe, you will start to miss yourselfe. Do you long for someone else than yourselfe?Why do you keep telling yourselfe that you need others? Is it enjoyable to be with others?Can you be with others if you can’t be with yourselfe? Are you my distraction? Am i your vaction away from yourselfe? What the fuck does this mean? I feel uncomfortable. This is not leading up to anything. I feel dissatisfied and confused. Diving into the abyss of meaninglesness. Annoyed with the convulsive laughter at the crowded table beside me. “Shut the fuck up!”, i dream of shuting out. I only hear your pain that you are trying to hide from yourselfe, that you try to run away from. I don’t wish you luck. You sound stuck. I despise the same in me that i hear in you. These words are my only relief in this moment. Nobody can write my words other than me. My pen fails at the same time that the soothing sound of the timeless Christmas carol from 1984, “Do they know it’s Christmas” find it’s way to my attention. Suddenly a warmth and a total change of mindstate happens. I look at the same table and enjoy their happiness and laughter. I’m back to my senses. I can feel my spine relax and crack up, and offers me a deep sense of clamness, as i let out a sigh. Thank you for this day. I better move on. This situation is old. My god… the ALIVENESS!



I had an idea’ to write about home. Now i think that maybe homelessness might be more interesting. But before into that, i want to mention that i’ve just bought a new pen that have not failed me yet. I also want to say that this is my body. These words is a product of my behavioral stream that has no other fuction than writing these words as i’m writing them. This is an exploration of what can occur in this situation in my current state of mind. Mellow jazz is filling the atmosphere and is blends well in with the dimmed light and candles in the bar. People are talking in a fast pace. This probably affects my writing. It feels like a race. As if they have to hurry, so they can the the other person everything. No space. Where are the breaks? Give me a break! But back to this home and homelessness. If i want to continue with this exploration of words, i can. Do i have to? No. But at the same time if find it interesting and stimulating. This is my body!? What a fucking “i’m so fucking profound” thing to write. It only makes sense in a behavioral science framing. Then it’s a fact. And the i can’t argue with facts. This is my body… it’s a fact, and not in the fucking mystical, posing, “better than you”, asshole kind of way, it’s just authentic. That word taste like the same shit right now. Like i’m trying to say something profound so people can notice me. Stop this effortness. You will just make youselfe and others sick of you. Why does this put a smile om my face? It tastes like rebell behavior and it smells like teen spirit. Thanks, Kurt. I think i’ll just go home. Feel a little worried that i will fail my pen, as it failed me. But right now we are one. Really enjoyed that last sentence. Now i’m going home. Wondering if i can manage to be home in my home…


Today i named this feeling for feeling for the first time in my life. I experienced first hand how this feels in my body. Under my anger it lied. After my volurability apeared. The people in the room was now in the room. They where in the past or the future, and i wanted to connect with them right here and now. Nobody knew i wanted and needed this. How could they? They did not have the same history of the enviroment as me. They had not the same truma as me. It was up to me to risk of being very unpopular in the social situation, by naming my own experience, after realizing that i wanted to change what was going on in the room, istead of just being a part of sharing stories and following the mood of the group.

Anger is fear’s ugly brother. Vulunarability is fear’s beautiful sister.