Leading the sustainable life?

• Living in nature
• Becoming independent
• Growing and harvesting my own food
• Building a life with children and a partner
• Living with people equal-minded 
• Creating a small community with close-knit neighbours
• Having my mother nearby 
• Value life, love, family, honesty and nature above everything else

Only years ago I had a whole other point of view of the world. I was young, I still am, I keep learning and developing as a person. My love has taught me a lot and she's helped me realise the values in life.

I hope my dream is possible. I doubt it. But the city, suburbia, the hectic modern life, the stress, the feeling of being just another puzzle in something bigger rather than controlling my own life, I want to get away from it all. I don't know how. I feel suffocated in this world and I know I am not the only one.

Fortrydelsen

Jeg hader mine bryster, mine brystvorter er forfærdelige.
Mine lår, baller, mave og arme ligner dovenskab.
Jeg hader at jeg får hår alle vegne.
Jeg hader at mine øjenbryn er lyse.
Jeg har lyst til at brække mig igen, og alligevel ikke.
Jeg vil elskes. Men det er lidt svært når jeg væmmes ved mig selv.
Jeg vil være en anden.

Jeg fortryder det. Og så alligevel ikke.
Jeg fortryder at jeg ikke var stærkere.

A Calling

"Between birth and death lies desire, 

Desire for life, for love, for everything good. 

And this is the source of all suffering."

A dim light from a candle flickers in the dark. Black ink drops onto the parchment lying on his wooden desk. His thumb carefully caresses the pencil in his hand, repeating the same circling movement over and over. Forgetting when he last ate, slept or bathed, he managed to count three sunsets since he first began writing. If it wasn't for the presence of Nyx, veiling the rays of light from the sun, he wouldn't have needed to disrupt his work to get candles and Lucifer matches. His scruffy beard is moist from sweat, his lips are chapped but sealed shut, his red skin carries a single salty waterpearl that falls and lands in the corner of the parchment. The empty parchment. His mind is in the state of complete bliss. He believes he must have emptied, not only his thoughts, but a part of his soul onto the previous four-hundred and fifty-seven pages. It was as if the pages had purified him, a spiritual tabula rasa. He rises from the creaking old stool and stands in front of the desk. He releases the strong grip of the pencil, dropping the tool he had clung onto for days, a tool that he had held onto for dear life, on the floor. His eyes fixate on the impressive stack of parchment that contains ink, sweat, and droplets of wax. His hand finds its way to the back of his neck, soothing himself as a brief moment of fear enters him. The fear of emptiness. Had he given too much of himself or had he given life to something remarkable?

Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos and dirt.

"Spiral, Spin, Ride the whirlwind; Knowing when the drumming stops, There'll be no second dance."

"Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich

Because I Can!

*Me making a sheep sound in the background*
Brother's girlfriend: "Why does she do that?"
My grandma: "She just does" *shrugs*

Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde

“Under the strain of this continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self.”

The boy shuts the book. His fingers caresses the leather-binding; trailing his index up the spine as he ponders. He thinks about her; the woman from his dreams, the trespasser in his mind. She has been there for as long as he can remember. Though she frightens him, makes him feel powerless and riddled with guilt for the things she makes him do, he cares for her; the boy knows the woman has been protecting him like a lioness, from them. He gets up from his chair, walks across the old creaking floorboards
and places the book on top of the dusty dim-lit fireplace. From the corner of his eye he sees the woman's murky silhouette gathering daffodils from their garden. Daffodils blossoming in winter is considered unusual, but what's even more peculiar is that all of the flowers in their garden seem to be hexed, they never wither; instead they lure outsiders with their beauty and remarkable scent. The boy rubs his eyes and turns to look directly at the woman. But what he sees is himself, standing from a distance, close by the fireplace inside of the villa. He watches himself leave the spot upon where he stood. And he begins to notice his surroundings; the warm heat from the burning chunks of wood is replaced by a chilly breeze, along with familiar floral scent. He feels his hand gripping something cool and damp. Looking down he sees a dusin of daffodils resting in a palm that doesn't resemble his own. The hand is certainly larger than his. Fingers bony, slender and broken in each joint. Realization hits him, and he drops the flowers before blacking out.

Dance!

Now I've showed you what I'm made of..