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#247 Motive Occupational

The mystery is selfish
The wish to see confined
All future that is coming
All happens in past time

The office that I rent
The room that I use
The desk that I lean on
The work I do chose

Was it my victory?
Truly a real choice?
I look back in history
And I hear my voice

Saying - I want to be
A captain in the navy
I want to join the army
I want to be me

So I studied fulltime
I rose on degree
Dare I commend
I dare do agree

All that this is laughing
Past then, at my now
Everything but justice
Pledge I do the vow

And surface as a victor
One who knows I will
Become the one I wish
And keep my dream still

#246 Poem Per Day

[ INSPIRATION FLOWS AWAY ]

If I could write a poem
A poem every day
I'd do my best to notice
When inspiration sways

It would be best to know when
My ideas run away
Like the hulk of Oakland
Like the snow in May

When the hulk is unfound
Or when the snow is gone
I am to old ideas bound
If I don't move along

And find my mind in due time
Then dig into its hull
Maybe I'll find a few words
Still hidden in my skull

Maybe I will find nothing
In regard to a day so dull
And scribble a little something
Inspirationist Lill and Lull

Remember when I sat there
Remember when they spun
The ideas in my eardrum
And now, they have begun.

#245 Goma, Comma

Living in a coma
Life is like a dome
Tension brings me shadow
Suspense lets me wake

For as long as I remember
I dare to sleep late
I fear the day I take
A step away from home

My back is strong and mighty
I can walk forever
I don't weigh an ounce

My dreamworld has its limits
The walls I cannot reach
But in between them lies
A vast infinity

The leaping wall is dreadful
Do I dare take a step?
To move in its direction
Even with unlimits left

I lift to my discretion
A secret with my hand
I leave it on the seashore
A secret to disband

bright white towers hover
A vision still so clear
And I can see a white dove
Floating in the air

Reaching for the moonlight
Striding for the peace
That nest even in dark nights
I will never reach

(e) Short Report

Steppin' in for my last visit at the public library in Överklaix this summer today- if it can be called summer anymore. The weather at present time and location, Northern Norths of Sweden, is grey and watery. An impenetrable blanket of clouds pulling over the sky in constant, a greater contrast to a past day filled with warmth and sunshine, and temperatures measuring far greater amounts than any recent weather forecasts dared expect. Now the sudden fall is approaching, and cascades of yellow leaves blow across the road in the passing wind. The morning swim in our lake felt icy at least, and outside the thermometer measures 14C, mid day, about to chilliness.

I am unavoidably counting down the days until we leave, not of hopeful anticipation, but of deepening tragedy. The past two years I have spent roughly a fourth of all total time each year, three months, in these civilized areas of grandeuring wilderness. Earlier, with unavoidable school to take up all other time, a rough 1-2 months each year, ever since I was born. The two small estates up north have been in my parents care for 23 years. Now my parents are both retired and I am the binding link that both brings them here and back to the crowded overpopulated concrete jungles mounted in the opposite peak of land. On both greater good and gradual bad. We plan to move up, sometime. And I plan to move out, someday after that.

Inspiration always leaps at me like a flood-wave up here, and I spend my time as I differ come winter more outside than inside, even with the regular intervals of refreshing sleep counted in. I wake up early every morning, with sunshine in my eyeline and a strand of lake blue grand waiting outside the window. We have no computer, no television, no links to any form of brain-grinding entertainment. I hack up shrubbery and trees choking the surrounding green fields with a small axe, paint the various buildings at regular intervals, help scavenge the forest for the coming summers supply of burnable wood, mow the lawns, carry up water from the lake, help expand our small plantation, and rinse it of evil greenery when the time comes. I pick blueberries, cloud-berries, wild raspberries, strawberries and lingon-berries. I fish, swim, paddle, voyage out in the woods by foot or bike, jogg every other day, eat, bake, wake fires to life, read when the rain comes, write when my thoughts flow, socialize when people come to visit, play games when friends and siblings take out their time of vacation. It's a happy yearly era.

I've never spent a full winter up here. They say it's dark, but I'm still saddened by the journey away from this haven of motion as the darkness slowly strides into view. A second burst of summer awaits me in southern Sweden, and my studies, started roughly one week back. I'll be a bit after everyone else when I return, in exactly 11 days (we leave in 10, the trip by car takes a sleepover on way), just like last year. We're leaving earlier now though, and when we all live further up North this transition of life won't be so constant and defying of freedom as it is now. Anyhow, I've read maybe ten more books since my last blog, thick ones, kept me awake very late. Took a long trip by bike in an attempt to reach Överkalix through the maze of forest roads stretching out over green valleys and hills, last Sunday - and made it! I found a little village by a big lake in the middle of nowhere, and many roads leading to many places without any real destination. Of course I don't travel by maps, that would ruing the whole ideal, pah.

So, I'll be back to type in words and stuff and finally update my sleeping sites after this long vacancy the week after the next. Until then.

#244 Screaming Dreams Or Screams Or Truth

I have reason to dream
Of seasons passed
A treasure I presume
In glistening grass

I have reason to scream
Obsessions of past
Treasons never redeemed
Upset and masked

I have reason to
Start a new
And dream my dreams
Without screams
Or truth.

#243 Tow Stabber (ALT: Stabbing Myself In My Toe)

I could not in my widest of vivid dreams
Stab myself in my toe
I would not even in my maddest of sadist screams
I shouldn't even know

That I wouldn't or couldn't imagine me
In a position as such
The slightest thought of such a tragic reach
Is in self one, too much

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