The world and I are not getting along. I mean, we’re working things out but it’s taking a damn long time, or so it seems. Am I writing just to… oh, I don’t know — why am I writing? Thoughts never translate well to paper in my experience. However constructive they appear, as neurons fire, there’s a barrier present. I know what it is now, though. It’s expectation. That whatever I write has to be something special. But none of it is.

“No worthwhile thought shall pass through these hands!”

I’ve written this before. I repeat myself a lot. It might be because I’ve successfully gotten this shit out of my brain and onto a hard drive before. It’s something I know how to do. These new and exciting thoughts that make me a better person, a more focused person are entirely new to me. If I have trouble doing them, how am I supposed to be able to write about them?

New and exciting to me, entirely old and uninteresting to you. You’ve been doing it for a long time. I’m just getting started. Every little task is an Everest of thought.


The world outside my tiny apartment scares me. Venturing out in public is an ordeal I’d rather not have to deal with. Whenever I do I feel judged and surveilled. I feel like I’m trespassing. I tense up, look mean, stare straight ahead. I walk with a purpose — to do what I have to and get away as quickly as possible. All the while afraid someone will notice me. It’s an ever present feeling of dread; I’m expecting to be called out. Singled out. At any moment.

It’s been like that since I was a kid. My first memory of social anxiety goes back to 1990. At certain points in my life it’s been easier, at other points worse. It’s pretty bad now.

Thursday, 9. September, 2010 · , , , , &

Who Am I To You & Who Are You To Me?

I’ve forgotten to take my pills these last two days. I understand now to what degree they suppress my moods and thoughts — both the good and the bad. Mostly the bad.

I am filled with anger and resentment and a strong feeling of having been surrendered by my friends. Maybe it was too much to ask of them in the first place. Maybe André was right; we’re not friends, just acquaintances. Like ships passing in the night we’re all headed for our own destinations — sometimes our headings intersect but in the end we all sail our own sea.

Oslo is a concrete wasteland filled with watering holes poisoned with alcohol and relationships that will never be more than a passing fancy. Is there anything left for me there? A job and some friends. A job I find dull and droll. Friends I never talk to.

I only ever saw them when it was time for drinking. They repeat the same jokes, the same quotes, the same stories. Regurgitating life in an attempt to seem substantial, but they are empty shells denying the humdrum of their urban sprawl.

It’s always the same chewing of fat going on. Filling the silence with every minutiae they can think of to avoid sitting there in the gloomy light of a run-down club and for a split second realize the inanity of their interaction and how little they feel comfortable with just existing in one place, together.

Why? Is it all an attempt at escaping real life? The realization that our lives boil down to one part work, one part sleep and an unhealthy dose of getting our minds constantly fucked by ourselves and everyone we come in contact with.

So that’s why we’re here. To eat, sleep, drink, fuck and work for the rest of our lives? This fucking incessant need to always be on the move, always have a purpose — no matter how insignificant or small we are in the big picture.

Saturday, 15. November, 2008 · , , , , &

A Quiet
Young Bird

I pray to a God whom I do not know. It's unclear to me now — is he friend or foe?
I have fallen from grace with that God up above; I’ve lied and I’ve cheated, I’ve never known love.
He came for me once but the grapevine had burned. None would sing for a quiet young bird.
I walked away from that mess — I thought I was free — and that only this God knew my destiny.
And I lobby for heaven day in and day out. But I remain rejected and I’m filled with doubt.

Wednesday, 29. October, 2008 · , , &

I'm Busy Pretending You're Not Here

The back of her head was a mess. It looked the way dead bodies’ heads look like when they’re dragged out of the ocean in the movies; patches of skin uncovered among raggedy, brown hair. She was making a fuzz over the bottle depositor being full and beeping, quietly harassing the cashier, who was busy scanning groceries. Her two cohorts were hunched over, supporting themselves on the edge of the conveyor belt. Resigned and coming down.

As I was waiting for the cashier to finish scanning my groceries, I caught the tail-end of a heated verbal exchange between the cashier and some guy who had some kind of axe to grind. I don’t know what the rub was, but he was behaving in such a manner that the cashier ended up scolding him.

All the people usually preoccupied with keeping their eyes from meeting someone else’s took notice. There’s nothing like heated discourse between strangers to unite people who’d usually just mind their own business, avoiding glances, going about their day; whatever that entails.

The guy in front of me was busy bagging his groceries, but couldn’t resist muttering ‘Damn foreigners, oughta go back to Pakistan’ under his breath. He was an older man from the north. Indignated, the Persian turned his attention to the old man, serving him a flustered lecture in geography and ethnicity.

I considered raising my voice, telling them both to go fuck themselves. It occured to me that they were bickering children, both ignorant and stupid. ‘Let’s just settle this right now; you’re picking a fight with an underpaid, overworked cashier — as for you… you’re a racist. Luckily, you might find respite in the fact that you’re both idiots.’ I never got that far.

They exchanged words for a few minutes before everything petered out and everyone went back to pretending they were alone in the store.

Thursday, 9. October, 2008 · , &