I leave by this time tomorow. If I´m lucky I will hold myself from crying when I say good bye, but I feel that I have the odds against me. He, that I hold so dear to my heart, will stand by, watching the plane take of. He doesnt know what I´m about to go through. Me neither, by the way, but at least I know it will be good. I´m in the hands of a God in whom I trust compleatly and I dont have to be afraid.
I love you, my darling. That will not change. Thus you don´t have to be afraid either.
My father, to, will see me of at the airport. As always when I´m of for a new adventure he´s the one taking me safe to and from the airport, harbour or station. Always the same calm and loving embrace before I go. Then, I know I´m to be safe, all the way and back again. Dear Father, how I love you for that... Thus you have always bin there for me, yet I have not always noticed and I´m sorry.
Mom, don´t cry. i´m back before you know it and I´ll cary all the sun you need back home with me, for you to experience whenever you need! Such is your love, and such the love I´ll return.
I may not be the same when I return. I may be just the same too. I dont expect anything. I just hope to be freed. If God needs me to, so be it. Come what may. I just want you to know that I love you all soo much and I pray the angels watch over you while I´m away.
Every miracle starts with a prayer.
Om Shanti Shanti Shanti
24 augusti 2009
10 augusti 2009
A seekers path...
I have no heart left to talk about when the plane take off, the nausius feeling grabs hold on me and I know I have less than a day to my favour before I´m to be finished with this life.
Outside the smal plasic window the sun rises above the horizon below and cover the fields in gold and amber. Tears I knew I would be shedding starts acordingly to well up and my insides turns into a battlefield. To follow my intuition would mean getting up, screaming panicstrucked to the stuarts to get me off. Take me back down, I wanna get out! Causing a scene, yes, but following my heart. As a child I lurned to get my ways around and continuing as a grown up I have lurned to keep the distance needed to always be free to move in any direction. Take another route if I want to. The world do not bend as I want to but I know how to be flexible. In that way I say nothing but cry my tears as I had directed the scen already. I flex for the situation is out of my control and it´s already to late anyway.
And so I pick up, again, the memory of Him, whom I met and slowly go to know during long nights of frustrating conversations. Having the same opinion can be sinserily bad sometimes but we found in eachother a conection far better than expected. His name; Tom. Ocupation; Non. Brought up on the streets of Dublin, at the age of 15 hitch-hikeing all the way down to Barcelona were he stayed as long as it took him to by a ticket to Katmandu. Having heard about the lost land in the far-away East and feeling the strongest desire to get there some day. Working the ship-yard, loading and unloading crates and emballages for to little money. Sleeping ontop of the softer ones until the next ships at the dock signaled and called him to get back on his feet. To move on became his living, the signs of the world his guidence. When to get going, when to leave behind a love, a job, a city. By the age of 27 he had climbed the stairs to the top of the Eifeltower, got lost in the Pyrenees, traveled by bike from Albania to China and chased doves at the Red square in Moscow. He was indeed a slumdog and so much like me anyone could ever get, part from the suit, the refined surface of a young man old as the sea.
At the same age, we had had our turns with love and sorrow but although we had lived compleatly devided lives we seamed to have the same red string following along our stories. I told him about my restlessness, he talk about finding his Neverland. I ask what questiones he held, and he gave me mine in return. Days and nights had passed by while we entered each others palaces. Crying for the same reasons and fighting over peanuts. Off course the day came when we ended up making love, in the satinsheeted hotelbed at his, with the french balconydoors whide open to drown our sounds in the citys. Many nights after that first one we fell in love with each other again and again. Talking less and less about passed times and spending more in the prescent. We held hands in public, he payed for dinner. It could have bin the perfect life, millions of moments when we both understood that we indeed belonged together and from then on choosed to stay that way. Instead the day came when after sex, he fell asleep and I lay awake with an encreasing urge to leave. And without knowing why, I did. Snuck out and into the hall where I dressed quickly, sandals in hand and tiptoed all the way down to the lobby.
Next time I saw him were at the Three Brothers and a live band had turned the open area in the middle of the restaurant into a small 360 scene and by the time I got a table the music already moved in all directiones, filled the eyes of old men and the blood of travelers. Simple, yet enchanting it reminded me of gypsees and french kisses, cottonsheets smelling of autumn and never ending nights in Calcutta, all at the same time. He sat across the room in the company of friends and drinkers. His black hair shining wet, tanned arms and folded cottonsleves. The silver bracelet that he never took of as a never ending promise to his sister to return to Dublin one day. To me he was perfection in persona and this I realised right there and then, but when he turned and looked across the room and right into my eyes I knew why I had left that day. If I had not, he would have and sooner or later I would be the one with a broken heart. "Never trust a restless soul. Never put comfort in a wind." As my mom used to say. Still, it felt like he saw right through me, across the room, penetrating the music and put spears in my heart.
Why did´nt I ask of him to come along with me? Why did´nt he ask me to stay? I know why. The questions is only disruptive. My life will continue back home, along the seasons, with all the changes inbetween. His life fits in a suitcase and a wooden box, mutch like a painters. What is in it I do not know. I guess no one does but him self. Just as his heart and mind. Shared in bits and pieces but the rest held in secret and oblivion to all. I could feel his sadness as a chilly mist around him and sometimes pictures sliped trough his mental cover and I gave away a glimpse of who he had become. I never told him but tried to face his every aspect in a loving way. Now theres no turning back. The nausea gets even worse. Feeling dizzy I call the stuartress and ask for some water and a large wiskey. What am I doing? I never drink wiskey!? But the polite and most pretty girl returns quickly with my orderd beverages and I take a large mouthfull before I have the time to stop myself. It tastes aweful and I have to stop myself from caughing by the strong burn down my throught. However the releasing relaxation from the alcohol hits me instantly and I lean back, focusing on my breath and the warmth spreading from my gut.
Then, the lady sitting next to me, sleeping what it seemed like a minute agao, turnes to me and say; "Sometimes the bitternes of life has to be swallowed with an even more bitter fellow for a company cause eaven though it tastes better sweethearts does´nt do you any good." Then, with a blick of one eye, she leans back again and continue to sleep.
Strucked by surprise, I don´t know what to do or think. God moves in mysterious ways, thats for sure. And as if I´m pushed out of it, I suddenly feel very tired and the sounds of the engines slowly puts me to sleep.
Outside the smal plasic window the sun rises above the horizon below and cover the fields in gold and amber. Tears I knew I would be shedding starts acordingly to well up and my insides turns into a battlefield. To follow my intuition would mean getting up, screaming panicstrucked to the stuarts to get me off. Take me back down, I wanna get out! Causing a scene, yes, but following my heart. As a child I lurned to get my ways around and continuing as a grown up I have lurned to keep the distance needed to always be free to move in any direction. Take another route if I want to. The world do not bend as I want to but I know how to be flexible. In that way I say nothing but cry my tears as I had directed the scen already. I flex for the situation is out of my control and it´s already to late anyway.
And so I pick up, again, the memory of Him, whom I met and slowly go to know during long nights of frustrating conversations. Having the same opinion can be sinserily bad sometimes but we found in eachother a conection far better than expected. His name; Tom. Ocupation; Non. Brought up on the streets of Dublin, at the age of 15 hitch-hikeing all the way down to Barcelona were he stayed as long as it took him to by a ticket to Katmandu. Having heard about the lost land in the far-away East and feeling the strongest desire to get there some day. Working the ship-yard, loading and unloading crates and emballages for to little money. Sleeping ontop of the softer ones until the next ships at the dock signaled and called him to get back on his feet. To move on became his living, the signs of the world his guidence. When to get going, when to leave behind a love, a job, a city. By the age of 27 he had climbed the stairs to the top of the Eifeltower, got lost in the Pyrenees, traveled by bike from Albania to China and chased doves at the Red square in Moscow. He was indeed a slumdog and so much like me anyone could ever get, part from the suit, the refined surface of a young man old as the sea.
At the same age, we had had our turns with love and sorrow but although we had lived compleatly devided lives we seamed to have the same red string following along our stories. I told him about my restlessness, he talk about finding his Neverland. I ask what questiones he held, and he gave me mine in return. Days and nights had passed by while we entered each others palaces. Crying for the same reasons and fighting over peanuts. Off course the day came when we ended up making love, in the satinsheeted hotelbed at his, with the french balconydoors whide open to drown our sounds in the citys. Many nights after that first one we fell in love with each other again and again. Talking less and less about passed times and spending more in the prescent. We held hands in public, he payed for dinner. It could have bin the perfect life, millions of moments when we both understood that we indeed belonged together and from then on choosed to stay that way. Instead the day came when after sex, he fell asleep and I lay awake with an encreasing urge to leave. And without knowing why, I did. Snuck out and into the hall where I dressed quickly, sandals in hand and tiptoed all the way down to the lobby.
Next time I saw him were at the Three Brothers and a live band had turned the open area in the middle of the restaurant into a small 360 scene and by the time I got a table the music already moved in all directiones, filled the eyes of old men and the blood of travelers. Simple, yet enchanting it reminded me of gypsees and french kisses, cottonsheets smelling of autumn and never ending nights in Calcutta, all at the same time. He sat across the room in the company of friends and drinkers. His black hair shining wet, tanned arms and folded cottonsleves. The silver bracelet that he never took of as a never ending promise to his sister to return to Dublin one day. To me he was perfection in persona and this I realised right there and then, but when he turned and looked across the room and right into my eyes I knew why I had left that day. If I had not, he would have and sooner or later I would be the one with a broken heart. "Never trust a restless soul. Never put comfort in a wind." As my mom used to say. Still, it felt like he saw right through me, across the room, penetrating the music and put spears in my heart.
Why did´nt I ask of him to come along with me? Why did´nt he ask me to stay? I know why. The questions is only disruptive. My life will continue back home, along the seasons, with all the changes inbetween. His life fits in a suitcase and a wooden box, mutch like a painters. What is in it I do not know. I guess no one does but him self. Just as his heart and mind. Shared in bits and pieces but the rest held in secret and oblivion to all. I could feel his sadness as a chilly mist around him and sometimes pictures sliped trough his mental cover and I gave away a glimpse of who he had become. I never told him but tried to face his every aspect in a loving way. Now theres no turning back. The nausea gets even worse. Feeling dizzy I call the stuartress and ask for some water and a large wiskey. What am I doing? I never drink wiskey!? But the polite and most pretty girl returns quickly with my orderd beverages and I take a large mouthfull before I have the time to stop myself. It tastes aweful and I have to stop myself from caughing by the strong burn down my throught. However the releasing relaxation from the alcohol hits me instantly and I lean back, focusing on my breath and the warmth spreading from my gut.
Then, the lady sitting next to me, sleeping what it seemed like a minute agao, turnes to me and say; "Sometimes the bitternes of life has to be swallowed with an even more bitter fellow for a company cause eaven though it tastes better sweethearts does´nt do you any good." Then, with a blick of one eye, she leans back again and continue to sleep.
Strucked by surprise, I don´t know what to do or think. God moves in mysterious ways, thats for sure. And as if I´m pushed out of it, I suddenly feel very tired and the sounds of the engines slowly puts me to sleep.
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