quick update

hey you lovely human,

I’m truly very sorry about my unexplained absence. I was fortunate enough to get to go to America for a month with kids my age from all over the US and Europe on a program called the Benjamin Franklin Fellows Summer Institute (don’t believe me? fine; here’s my very much unfinished travel blog of the trip). Suffice to say, I had the, to borrow a phrase, the time of my life and now consider myself different in a number of significant ways.

I didn’t have any spare time there and after my trip (and then quickly after another trip to the beautiful north of Iceland), putting my thoughts into actual pieces of writing, instead of just scribbled thoughts in my beloved red notebook, seemed unaccomplishable and scary all over again.

But I’m back now and in full gear!

Much love,

Rebekka

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Wake

She took his hand,
he held his breath.
A facile peace,
a moment’s rest.

She kept her eyes
transfixed on his.
Despondent air
of nurturing.

She yearned return.
No sign of life.
The common light
now desolate. 

the lingering Goodbye

Small talk inauthentic smiles
creeping fall different times
transformed minds lingering goodbyes

I closed my eyes at noon and had them opened anew at sunset
searched for my anchor that has changed its nature
my truth tells me it was never any different
I tell it to be quiet (until nothing else will be)

love, what has this become
but mindlessly, hopelessly, frailly
holding on the to illusion that past doesn’t evolve into the present
that what has been will be and what I have been I am

treasured memories are not enough for the oncoming burn-out
they are not enough to tackle scary monsters or to reignite the flame of hope
it burned out long ago anyway
yet in the cold we still pretend to be warmed by its heat

and what hurts is that it doesn’t
I wait and I wait yet I still don’t cease to exist
I growl at time for its manic resolve
never

to

 
stop

Up

Sun brightens your lost eyes
up above the birds are flying
All the while, we feel love
It’s been long, but I’m back
My forlorn worries dying
All the while I feel home
All the while I feel home
I feel home

Death and chaos on the news
Heartbreak, goodbyes, mother’s crying
All the while, I feel hope
As long as this still exists
I know I’ll keep trying
To see the sun behind the clouds
You show me the sun
I see the sun

‘Cause we’re going up, up, up, up
And we won’t ever stop-op-op-op
Got friends by my side, wind in my hair
Gonna dance all night, with you by my side
‘Cause we’re going up, we’re going up, up, up

Angels whisper in my ear
Give up the pain from yesterday
Let’s run into the light
Feel the breeze on your skin
Don’t be afraid, I’m here to stay
Baby you were never a ghost
You were never a ghost
Never a ghost

Sometimes we gotta let go
Sometimes life goes to show
Nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be easy
But there’s no going back

‘Cause we’re going up, up, up, up
And we won’t ever stop-op-op-op
Got friends by my side, wind in my hair
Gonna dance all night, with you by my side
‘Cause we’re going up, we’re going up, up, up
Not giving in, not giving up
Tell everyone we’re gonna die young
‘Cause we’re going up, we’re going up, up, up

alone with my mournful mind

I was too little
I was too late

I was tentatively reaching out for your turned back
too engrossed in studying where it had been bruised and where loved
to notice what you were running towards

I was the eager overseer
watching your every brave step
every strong smile
every tyrannical tear
that in the midst of the immobilizing beauty missed your fiery intentions

I was resting under your shade
while you were busy growing towards the sun
now I can’t see it any longer
you evolved into magnificence
I stagnated into loneliness

you were a question I didn’t get to answer
a problem someone else was called up to the board to solve

I am left alone with my mournful mind and your shaken shackles
amidst our self-constructed jungle of uncertainty
only keeping my wild screams at bay because of my trembling nails digging into my skin

So I will let my steady mind
support you through the wilderness of life
all the while my heart will continue
as the tides continue to come back for more
as the trees continue to grow leaves despite knowing they’ll eventually depart again
to ache for what could’ve been

Too many questions, too little mental capacity

“He explained to me with great insistence that every question posessed a power that did not lie in the answer.”  ― Elie Wiesel, Night

I’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. Me having started to write has made me realize how much I don’t know and how much it scares me. About relationships. Responsibility. Time. Life.

Am I worth it? How do I take charge of my own life? What am I supposed to be doing right now? What do I need to do to achieve x? And how can I make sure it doesn’t lead to y? Where’s the line between courage and foolishness? How do I make my life meaningful? How do I gain confidence in myself and my life? When will I figure it out? Am I even asking the right questions?

This is just a fraction of what has been running through my mind lately. And I can’t seem to stop, which is driving me a bit crazy to be honest. And not in the Britney Spears hit song kind of way. 

I’ve started to assume that there is meaning in everything – and if the meaning is not clear to me, then I just don’t get it. But I want to get it. Really badly.

I’ve realized that writing essays like these and poems isn’t a way for you to answer life’s many questions, but ask them. If you have been reading my blog posts, it might have been infuriating to you how I never really come to a sound conclusion, and have more questions than arguments for my viewpoint. 

It has been to me at least. Realizing that asking all these new questions about myself and life doesn’t mean life will reward me with an answer because of my creativity with thinking up the question. I guess it’s a sense of entitlement I have to get over. I know I have to find my own answers, but how? what will they be? when and what must I go through to figure it all out – and at what cost? will I ever figure it out?

See? Whatever the subject I start thinking about, I just end up asking more questions.

Maybe the power has always been in the questions, not the answers. Maybe questions don’t always exist to be answered, but to be asked. After all didn’t Scott Westerfield say that the best books are the ones that ask the best questions, and bad readers are the ones who want everything answered? Maybe that applies to life too.

I always told my friends to ravel in the chaos and uncertainty of life. But I’ve realized the advice you give can be the hardest to follow through yourself.

I guess it’s all about accepting that you’ll never be able to have a full life by putting everything in neat little boxes and maps that show the way from A to B is so much harder than it seems. I guess the only map you’ll ever be able to draw of your life is the one that shows the path you already have completed. But that’s exactly what’s so hard to accept. And what’s so scary to accept, because you realize you have had the responsibility all along and always will.

But I didn’t just write this post to complain about wanting to fathom the unfathomableness of life, but to make a promise to myself and anyone reading this.

I’m going to create.

I’m going to create to keep me occupied and try to focus on less questions at a time. There might not be anything wrong with feeling and thinking, but letting it take you over to the point where you’re going crazy with anxiety is probably not a good thing either.

And to use these damned questions in my head to their full advantage. To understand them better and to create good poems, stories, songs – whatever. Anything.

And to keep you updated, I am currently working on a video to my poem “Star” (renamed from “Exploding Star”. I’ll post it as soon as I finish it, which hopefully is going to be in a couple of days. Which might mean that there’ll be less blog entries until then. 

What questions are driving you crazy and how do you deal?

P.S.: Thank you for the support so far. You guys are the metaphorical answers to my questions.

and I’m scared

I’ve got nothing
figured out
and I’m scared

Anxiety obscures reality
and my own feelings become a mystery

you’re right here with me
I’m right here with you
and yet
my anxious mind has transformed you
into a distant goal
riddled with ambiguity

how do you
seize the day
if your lesser mind believes
that the seizing will erase the day to come

and how can you be
responsible for your own journey
if you’re not sure you’re worthy of it

how do you give the best answers
if you didn’t quite catch the question

what do you do
when conviction
faces assured devastation
at the sight of the inevitable
and always present
what if?

if only
potential choices
came with maps of consequences and success-o-meters
to show us the way

I’ve got nothing
figured out
and I’m scared

In the café there was the word

Billede0217Yesterday I was at my favourite café, sitting on a comfortable couch and reading a Jane Austen novel. In front of the couch, there is this chest, on which there are layers of postcards, pictures, doodles and messages from happy customers from all over the world, and a above those, a glass pane.

I looked up from my book, and this one piece of paper caught my eye. I read the first two and a half paragraphs and felt my heart beating as a result of what I’d read, without knowing its context.

In case you find the text on the picture I took with my crappy cell phone camera to be illegible, here is what I could read at that point:

what a melancholic world I’ve invited you into, and with no regard for your innocence.

i cannot tell you what love is yet.

but i often think to myself, where was my outspoken heart where

I couldn’t read any more of the writing, because there was a postcard, a bookmark, a card and other obstacles covering the text. By that point I was totally engulfed in the words on this random piece of paper by a stranger I knew nothing about and I wasn’t going to stop until I could read the rest.

So I put down my book and resorted to using my bookmark to push everything around this piece of paper around until all of the text was visible to me. It took a while, and I had to use many tricks to push things in the right direction, without thereby pushing what was next to those, onto the paper. At one point, I let my hair down (literally – although in some was figuratively too I suppose) and used my hair pins to maneuver everything from the words I found myself so drawn to. So as I poked around under the glass pane, looking like a madman to the other visitors of the café, one by one, the remaining words were revealed to me.

When I could finally read the whole thing, I didn’t know what to think. I just read it over and over, all the while asking myself why I had become so obsessed with these words and why my heart was beating so fast upon reading the raw feelings of a total stranger.

It said: “but i often think to myself, where was my outspoken heart when i gave up my mind to the scarecrow.

and you my dear, where were you when i relinquished my heart for the rusting tin man?

It’s not on the picture, but below the text it said “d.v.c.” and then there was a row of Roman numerals I can’t recall. I didn’t know, and still don’t, even after the “help” of Google, if this was a quote from a book – and the writing is so good that I thought that if it was a quote from a book, I was being completely culturally ignorant by not recognizing the author – or if these were truly just the thought of a unknown stranger?

Why did I care so much about these few words scribbled on a piece of paper and left at a café? Why did they move me so much and why could I not think of anything but those words for hours after? Why do I still care so much that I’m writing a post about it? I don’t even fully get some of it. What is a scarecrow in this instance? What does the “rusting tin man” symbolize? I can only guess.

I think the answer to that question is very similar to the answer to why I love the written word enough to want to become a writer.

There is something so magical about the art of choosing specific words to best to describe your feelings and others understanding them and relating to them, that so many around the world are willing to have that be the only thing they do for the rest of their life. The beauty of the various deeds language can be used for, the colours of the rainbow it can paint, the amount of people you can get to in places where the entire population is literate is so fascinating to me and many others. Because earlier in this post I wrote “or if these were truly just the thought of a unknown stranger?” Notice the “just” I chose to have there? Maybe that’s stupid of me. After all, the value of art is independent of its popularity, isn’t it? And in this particular case, there is a certain beauty in not knowing who the author of these mesmerizing words is.

Words can be used to portray love, hate, anger, sorrow, hope, lack of hope. It can heal wounds and at the same time create the deepest ones. You can connect and communicate with those around you, and even, as this is an example of, total strangers. There is something so scarily beautiful and powerful about that, that it draws great hords of people in.

For people like me, the stories told through words just are the stories we connect to the most. And I’m not sure why. But I know that if the words are chosen deliberately, a thousand words can indeed tell more than a picture. And stories that are written down create universes that we can escape to when our own are too hurtful for us to be able to deal with for a while.

And there are few moments I love more than that moment where I run across a sentence, a word, a paragraph, in a book that speaks to me so much, that it doesn’t just illustrate one problem I’m having at the time I read the words meant not just for me but so many others, but my whole life. Because songs may be stuck in our heads for a day or two, but lines in poems and books can stay with me for many months and years after I read them for the first time.

Other art forms may have the same effect on some people, but I’m sticking to words. For me, it has always been about words, and probably always will be.

Star

I wish to be a star
a star that burns forever
until that forever
as they all eventually do
comes to a humble end
and I explode

and the bright
infinitely scary and therefore infinitely ravishing
power
energy
will spread
and it will not leave a patch of our shared, confusing universe bare

but first
it will land on you
and you will pick the piece of my fragmented soul
meant just for you
off of your tiny scared head

and as the piece of me keeps shining
for a second
you will see the fading outline of my fatigued face

and the radiating light ball will fly
right into your colossal heart

and stay there forever
to remind you
that there’s something bigger than us out “there”
and above all
that there’s light always
and you need not exhaust yourself trying to find it
it has always been right within you

the rest of the pieces
will go to my scattered family
my faithful friends
those that I liked but never got to chance to explore
those I used to call my friends but now are merely happy memories
and finally
the rest of our big world

and I will be remembered
as the girl who shone until her dying day
who shone brighter than the north star
but guided just the same

and who shone
even in times when the sky
was covered in miserable gray clouds
to bring to light
that the gray clouds aren’t curtains
destined to cover up magic and joy forever
but tides
that sometimes wash in uninvited
and for too long
but are bound to take make their leave
and reveal the beautiful night sky
inhibited by millions of small/large stars

and how in the end
I didn’t implode
but explode
tiny bits of light.