They call it poetry,

I walked into the book shop today,

five floors filled with stories

and tales and words. Beautiful

words that can fill an empty life

in a heart-beat.

I bought a book today, and now

I don't know how I ever lived without it.

No

it's not the Bible.

But it might as well be called that,

instead its name catche the very essence

Of the purpose of everything.of me.

Because isn't it what we're all trying to do,

one breath at a time,

one step at a time.

Staying Alive.

It's all I've ever wanted.

Now I look at it, and

realise that I have found my own bible.

Because isn't that what faith is

all about?

Finding our own way,

our own reasons,

for putting that one foot in front of the other?

I always knew words were powerful,

but tonight,

they've gotten new meanings, and new

power.

Words

Do you see the way I stare into nothing?
How the sun is falling and the stars are rising?
The flags are blowing in the wind,
wondering when the rain will fall.
The candle has run out of time,
it's taken its last breaths.
The leaves are blowing up to storm,
and they are changing colour too.
The streams run as fast as they can,
trying to avoid drowning in themselves.
The flowers have gone to warmer places,
they migrated as the air turned cold.
Roads are turned into mud,
streets become ice,
houses grow cold.
And in the mist of it all,
I stare,
into nothingness

Write. Speak. Share.

The pen is said to be the most powerful weapon,
And when people get imprisoned, and even murdered, because of it,
we realise that that is actually true.

Tomorrow the trial against two Swedish reports in Ethiopia starts. They are being charged on grounds of terrorism. They were investigating the current regime and also oil companies in the region. Everyone should take a look at Reporters Without Borders. Without reporters, we become victims of the powerful. Without reporters, there is no one out there fighting for the right to tell the truth, and spread it.

So write about it. Speak about it. Share it.
Thank you, to all reporters out there for doing your job. I am very grateful for it.



The picture is from the organisation PEN, a worldwide association of writers.

Adding music

There's a guitar standing in the corner of my room.
I don't know how to play it.
But I like the look of it.
Think of all the stories it could tell,
if it was in the hands of someone who could get them out.
I always wished I could play an instrument,
words often sound better with music.
It gets so quiet otherwise.
Finding words that fit together isn't that difficult,
but finding notes that belong with eachother,
that's a whole other story.
But then again,
maybe that's just me.
The girl who always wished she could play,
or sing.
But no,
so instead,
I write.
Without the music.
Usually it works just as well,
it's just a bit quieter.

The empty paper

She was staring at the empty paper. It was screaming to her. Emptiness. Loneliness. Longing. She was staring at the empty paper. And saw herself. How she herself had been emptied of everything, without really knowing how it had happened. The empty paper used to be filled so easily, so quickly. With a small movement, and there it was. The thoughts, the pen, the words. The flowed like a creek in springtime. She used to have thoughts. Weird. Warm. Exciting. Challenging. Old. Familiar. New. But now they were gone. The emptiness have taken over. The words are forced. Uncomfortably. She stared at the paper. And without knowing when, or how, she knew. She knew that somewhere along the road she had lost herself. Focus had ended up in the wrong place. Fatigue that had taken over. Free time filled with forced rest to have the strength to deal. The brain is being filled with knowledge. But is not challenged with other things. She thought she was on the right track. She thought this was the big thing. She looks at the empty paper. And wonders where she has gone.

Taking back my self

I used to write all the time. Short stories. Poems. Random texts about nothing and everything. The words would just come to me. I would sit down. Grab my pen, and write. I loved it, every second. It was like disappearing into a different world. A world where I made the decisions and controlled the outcomes. Although I many, many times did not have as much control over the pen as I thought I did. It would often grab hold of me and not let go until it had gotten its say. Short stories rarely turned out as I had planned. Poems usually took a weird twist at the end. To just let go of myself like that was wonderful. Escape from the daily routine. The daily life. The world. When I started university a two years ago I lost that. Writing became a chore. Not that I study writing, or English or anything like that. I study international relations. Which means that we write essays. We analyse why the world is as it is, and we write essays about it. Long, tiresome essays. And writing lost its fun. So did reading. I read so much for my classes, and wrote so much, that when I had a spare minute I was too tired to open a book or grab a pen. I've hardly written anything in two years. I miss it. Terribly. It's a good way to vent. Get everything out. Thoughts. Ideas. Speculations. So I am going to get it back. The fun in writing. I might have to force myself in the beginning. Pull out the words. But I'm hoping this will help. Have a place where I can write.

First entry. And as of entry two, I will write again. Write in the way that I miss so much.