"Varför älskar du mig?"
Did you know?
It's all about them
When someone tells you: ”I love you” and then you feel: ”Oh, I must be worthy after all” – that’s an illusion. That’s not true. Or someone says: ”I hate you” and you think: ”Oh, God, I knew it; I’m not very worthy” – that’s not true either.
Neither thought holds any instrinsic reality.
They are an overlay. When someone says: ”I love you”, he is telling you about himself. When someone says: ”I hate you”, she is telling you about herself. Not you. World views are self views – literally.
After a while
You learn.
Bara en dag
Jag måste få ge mig en dag
då min tanke får vandra fritt.
En dag då jag tar mitt första steg
och vet att det steget är mitt.
Jag vill vakna upp i ett eget rum
och resa mig upp och stå
på golvet en stund, och fråga mig själv
åt vilket håll jag vill gå
Ett steg i sänder!
Och sedan ett steg till!
Det blir lustigt att se vad som händer
när man går åt det håll man själv vill.
Jag måste fråga mig själv vem jag är,
och varför jag gör det jag gör
Jag kan inte leva med dörren stängd
om mitt liv står där utanför
Och ropar de på mig från alla håll
så svarar jag: - vänta en stund.
I dag vill jag lyda min egen röst,
i dag är jag ingens hund
Ett steg i sänder!
Och sedan ett steg till!
Det blir lustigt att se vad som händer
när man går åt det håll man själv vill
My mother used to say...
It's not what you say,
It's not what you do,
That universe within
And a galaxy in her soul,
That drev people to her endless heart,
Like the pull of a black hole,
She was made of earth and fire,
Of wishes cast on shooting stars,
She was a brand new solar system,
Unlike the ones they'd known so far,
With constellations ever changing,
And they thought the thing for them to do,
Was bring her to their size,
They shrunk the universe within her,
Told her her vast expanse was wrong,
That she should make her life much smaller,
If she wanted to belong,
As they collapsed her world around her,
She felt her inner stars grow cold,
Until her life was far too heavy,
You might wonder how it happened,
But I guess that it makes sense,
Becayse a life becomes much heavier,
When it's the universe condensed.
Richard Paul Evans
That type of magic
Stig Dagerman, 21 april 1953
A genius in baggy jeans
sometimes the scariest thing you could ever hear in life is
- no
I have a theory. I think that if they just taught kids how to be themselves. Then we would have no need for therapists or prison cells. Because you see in school, I was the token black guy and to fit in I would do whatever it takes. But black history month was the only time that I could get a date.
We have a tendency to fear what we do not know. Because sometimes the scariest thing you could ever hear in life is - no. No you are not popular and no you are not cool, and no, you will not become anything even if you finish school. Telemarketing eventually helped me conquer that fear. But children lack the ability to be so sincere; they just tell it like it is: "I do not like you because you are different and frankly you scare me so your feelings are really none of my business"
But you see this is where it all begins, the need to be accepted. We're being considered different is just like being disrespected. I learned quickly that assimilation helps get rid of awkward tension so do whatever is considered in, in order to be accepted. But you see in elementary school I was not white enough and in middle school I was not black enough. So let me tell you what, you can keep your titles because I have had enough.
I no longer require permission to be who I am.And I am sick of wasting my breath if you do not already understand that
we are all unique wither you like it or not. So do not put me in a box cause I will just break the locks. I defeat stereotypes on a daily basis. A genius in baggy jeans, oh you should see their faces. But I am just me, and do not know how to be somebody else. So love me or hate me as long as you do it by yourself.
I pity the "cool crowd" because your personalities need help. And most of you are just too insecure to think by yourselves,
But I have been there, done that and got the free t-shirt, the one that we all wear because originality is just like a big secret. But I refuse to conform to your capitalist mentality. Where we all watch the same meaningless crap on TV and where little girls confess their sins to a toilet bowl shedding pounds from the cuticles Because somebody lied and said that becoming a toothpick was beautiful. And in school they always said that loving math would help but I never once learned how to love myself.
But hey, I guess better late than never cause honestly I have never felt better. So please, take a moment to reflect on who you are and when I say who you are, I do not mean what you are cause what you are has already been decided from up above. And God did a perfect job so please show him some love. And if most of you do not agree with everything that you just heard me say, than you just helped me prove my point - so thank you very much, and have a great day.
Det lilla som gör det stora
"The great lover" by Bukowski
I mean, at that place in east Hollywood
I was so often with the hardest numbers
in town
I don't speak as a misogynist
I had other people ask me,
"what the hell are you doing, anyhow?"
these were floozies, killers, blanks
they had bodies, hair, eyes, legs
parts
but, say, take one of them, it was like
sitting there with a shark dressed in a
dress, high heels, smoking, drinking,
pilling
the nights went into days and the days
went into nights
and we babbled on through, sometimes
bedding down, badly.
through the drink, the uppers, the
downers, I got myself to imagine
things - say, that this one was the
golden girl of the golden heart and
the golden way of laughter and love
and hope
in the dim smokey light the long hair
looked better than it was, the legs
more shapely, the conversation not as
bare, not as vicious
I fooled myself pretty well. I even
got myself to thinking that I loved
one of them, the worst one
I mean, why the hell be negative?
accept
we drank, drugged, stayed in the
center of the rug, through sunset,
sunrise, played Scrabble for 8
or ten hours
each time I went in to piss she
stole the letters she needed
she was a survivor, the
bitch
after one marathon session
of 52 hours of whatever we
were doing
she said, "let's drive to
Vegas and get married?"
"what?" I asked.
"let's drive to Vegas and
get married before we
change our minds!"
"but suppose we get married,
then what?"
"then you can have it any
time you want it." she told
me
I went in to take a piss
to let her steal the letters
she needed
but when I came out I opened
a new bottle of wine
and spoke no more of the
subject
she didn't come around as
much after that
but there were others,
about the same
sometimes there were
more than one
they'd come in two's
the word got out that
there was an old sucker
in the back court, free
booze and he wasn't overly
sexually demanding,
although at times something
would overtake me and I
would grab a body and throw
in a sweaty horse copulation,
mostly, I guess, to see if
I could still do it
and I confused the mailman
there was an old couch on
the porch and many a morning
as he came by I'd be sitting
there with, say, two of them
we'd be sitting there with our
beer cans, smoking and
laughing
one day he found me alone
"pardon me," he said, "but can
I ask you something?"
"sure"
"well, I don't think you're
rich..."
"no, I'm broke."
"Listen, he said, "I've been around
the world."
"yeah?"
"and I've never seen a man with
as many women as you.
there's always a different one.
or a different pair..."
"yeah?"
"how do you do it?
I mean, pardon me, but you're kind
of old and you're not exactly a
Cassanova, you know?"
"I could be ugly, even."
he shifted his letters from one hand to the
other.
"I mean, how do you do it?"
"availability," I told him.
"what do you mean?"
"I mean, women like a guy who is always
around."
"uh," he said, then walked off to continue his
rounds
his praise didn't help me
what he saw wasn't as good as he thought
even with them there were unholy periods of
drab senselessness,
and worse
I walked back into my place
the phone was ringing
I knew that it would be a female
voice
Inte än
Jag är inte över dig än.
Vem lämnade vem?
Jag är inte över dig än.
"The Fox" by Khalil Gibran
“A mouse will do.”
"The sleep-walkers" by K. Gibran
In the town where I was born lived a woman and her daughter, who walked in their sleep.
One night, while silence enfolded the world, the woman and her daughter, walking, yet asleep, met in their mist-veiled garden.
And the mother spoke, and she said: “At last, at last, my enemy! You by whom my youth was destroyed—who have built up your life upon the ruins of mine! Would I could kill you!”
And the daughter spoke, and she said: “O hateful woman, selfish and old! Who stand between my freer self and me! Who would have my life an echo of your own faded life! Would you were dead!”
At that moment a cock crew, and both women awoke. The mother said gently, “Is that you, darling?” And the daughter answered gently, “Yes, dear.”
John Lennon
Aleena Yasin
I did not deserve him.
And I was at peace.
"Faces" by Khalil Gibran
I've seen a face with a thousand countenances
- and a face that was but a single countenance as if held in a mould.
I've seen a face whose sheen I could look through to the ugliness beneath
- and a face whose sheen I had to lift to see how beautiful it was.
I've seen an old face much lined with nothing
- and a smooth face in which all things were graven.
I know faces, because I look through the fabric my own eye weaves
- and behold the reality beneath.
Haruki Murakami
One beautiful April morning, on anarrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl. Tell you the truth, she's not thatgood-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me.
The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course.
Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catchmyself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning. Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed. Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?Maybe the simple truth would do.
"Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had. I take a few more strides and turn:
She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical. Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle. As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily? And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl:
"Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and thegirl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?