Making a new turn of life...

Making a new turn of life…



She felt this grip of a foreign hand. Something abstract that was like a ghost made her go in the wrong direction. And as ”it” was like something spiritual she could have no claims of herself. Why should she? She went to the doctor and talked about it. He gave her some pills. But she did not really wish to swallow them but had listened to his stern voice. ”You have a severe disorder. You gotta swallow these. They will help you through your day!”

That was about the drip from the universe that hit the hardest stone inside of her own brain. She felt ”it” was eroding her. Rather: was this brain of flesh really her brain? Well, after having been on those pills for several weeks she still felt this unmentionable feeling, feeling getting down the core of her heart. That was a pain inside of her. Why could not the brain commit to her other senses? Or where did they sprang up? From the unknown spheres of an unknown place. It was like a terror to her mere being. A terror of not having her own ways to describe her emotions. Now…

The system of this Socialistic Sweden was there to give her care. Herself she gave no damn. Things more or less just happend to her. She was not even a victim of Sweden. She was a victim of herself. Because of this: In her democrazy she was supposed to vote, eat, think, feel, go to work, contribute with – with herself only! Like there was nothing else in the world to give her a promise of the null and nothing. Cause she had tried to commit suicide. Not only once, but several times.

Oh that fly on the walls in her apartment. It was sitting there, not knowing. She felt just like a biological something. Her body adressed her from within. ”Hallo there! Don´t you figure out that the personalisation of your body has to be….For the first time in hunman history you are given a promise from the physical spheres of life. Don´t you notice, hu?”

Hallo there? Did she notice – blaablaablaa!

Just the way it was. The body was sort of sleeping. Sort of eating. Sort of drinking coffee. Sort of longing for a husband. Sort of wanting a hug of all hugs. But it did not help. She had never decided to come down to life just to live her own life. The all engulting structures of the collective society held her in a grip. A grip that was political, yet of a call from a tone that promised freedom.

Well, at that point she felt like: ”To hell with it all….!” Rather, she already lived in a kind of hell. Swallowing pills she had not asked for. And the way and the manners of her doctor was just about pee in her life from now on. Pee on yourself!

But? Her stubborn way to press herself through life could perhaps hold a promise. And at that point in life she had an exhibition with all her artistic works. Pictures of nude woemen. Pictures that let her give room for her inner self that had no senses of any true borders between the soul, mind and the body. But hadn´t she also asked someone to give her all answers of life? Yea well no but na…

She had been listening to her best friend, who had told her own story about men. The story about how easy it was as a woman to give up her own ideals, because there was always a man out there to fill in all the empty space. And the longing to be filled up, how about it? Well eh yeah right?

Listening to this story made her feel recognition. Made her feel that sort of woemen went together. Having no social or political history behind themselves gave room for opening up to the void inside of themselves. This void?

And there was always someone who filled up the questions with more and more answers. She thought about it for several months. The void inside of her? The terror. Not to mention the most ugly thing there was: The torture of the null and nothing inside the Female condition. How about it? The condition of – not voting. Not being of your own. Not thinking in accordance with your own being. Not dressing in your own clothes because the story had it that you have to dress in the latest fashion. Lipsticky and blues. Like a black person would be her answer. Slavery of Femininity. Slavery of getting a place she had not asked for. It was just not right. And still the system gave her a something to let her fit in to it all.

And then. Months passed by. She stayed in bed. Filled herself with cakes and coffee and sweet little thoughts about a knight who had to come to – give her opportunities. But how odd now, right? How truly odd?

Perhaps trying the lesbian route would be a better choice, she thought. And she remember her youth when she had tried to seduce her best friend, a girl with remarkable talent. The girl who had to commit suicide, just because her talent did not go hand into gloves. It just did not go her way. And now she felt the same. Her talent was out on run. And she felt like she was forced out on the outer branch. It was a web of everything that swallowed her to the guts, to her own being. Where could she be heading where the net of life was not? Everywhere this engulfing system that lied about it. It said most clearlty that now it had given her the right to vote. Well how true. Once every fourth year she was a subject. But then?

She had seen a psychologist. A true girl. Just like she was a child of twentyeight years, this psychologist. What reply had she to – no! Not to give her. She was now fed up with being given opportunities. Simply because she had not created life itself. Her biology stood there in the midst of it all. In the midst of the society, the very system. And now?

Senses had stripped her bare. Senses of being, not exactly a victim, but a kind of way to be described by an abstract thought. And the abstract was sort of not there. Although she believed in her European heritage, but still…

yes still…

There was something of a surrender to her thoughts that made her feel she had to let go. Go of it all. Let loose and let hands grip a chord of a music lost in space. And having been out in space meant she had to go for the spiritual issues instead. The invisible could never got to her inner side of the being. Her being had to roam her own ideas. Her own thoughts, no matter what...And it was?

It was like...a temptation of staying cool within. Not letting out thoughts just to gain what there wasn´t to gain...It could not and it could never be described in pragmatic concepts. That was about as far out as she could come. Nothing pragmatic, no more system. But a being that had no answer to their suggestions. No more anywhere to go within society´s own prison. Anarchistic threat from her own soul was gripping a new weapon. The weapon of choice. Because in Sweden it was a threat to the law of Jante to go into the Liberal way. Because they sort of belonged to the Conservative. And the threat was that the Liberal leader was a black woman. But she had her own thoughts about being a subject. Another kind of Individualis. Be it as it may, she thought from now on…

And next she took a step out into the other void, being threatened by the populistic Left. Because the Socialism had been an all engulfing society with norms that now was a claim. The claim to belong. But she dropped out.

She stopped taking those pills. Stopped listening to the doctor´s answers. Stopped being in the Female side of queerness. Just because of it!!!

She stood there in a brittle boat. On her way to make her first choice for many years. Sort of dropped out the system of the net´s facts and figures. From now on she was heading towards her own fiction of life. Her own ethnic way to be Sicilian (partly) and Polish (partly) – and next: Viking (for a great deal of life). The lonely tone on a brittle boat on the Viking Ocean tempted her to go forward. There was no return. And she felt the wind in her hair. And the depth of the sea beneath her body. The sea was her grave. It gave no answer to silly questions. It was just as it was. A choice of letting the void from the Viking sea engulft her, instead of the homestead´s safety. What else? Just a sole choice…