The days are slow. Each second tics on like torture. Often as I look at the time I realise that only minutes passed, not hours or lifetimes as it feels. An empty house with nothing to fill that is growing smaller by every moment.

In the lethargic speed by which each day proceeds I am grounded down in confidence and accommodation. I am fed-up by being this excuse of molecules breathing air reserved for better purposes. That air could fill balloons or meringues or be the secret substance in the holes of cheese. Instead, that air gives me enough strength to keep my brain working its normal 150 percent activity but by 75 percent functionality, sigh. My insides is a mixed bag of emotions, demons and organs that I’m considering selling – too old for egg donation I guess a kidney or half a liver will have to do – that, I am told, grows back. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not depressed in any way. I know all too well what that looks and feels like and this is nothing like it. I’m just stuck sitting at an abandoned train station in the desert waiting for a boat to come and take me away.

I used to be a firm believer that we make our own fate. That we have to build our own boat, dig our canal and c(ar)ry the water there ourselves in order to get somewhere. If this is true, then I must be really bad at building boats. However, it is hard to motivate building one with out a direction in sight. I guess this is why the desert around me contains three boat hulls, a few sails and half a train locomotive. Nothing finished, nothing committed to and nothing is going to take me anywhere through these dry sand dunes. I only wonder, how long until I run out of water?

Perhaps there is something to be said about going with the flow, despite this river less desert. To do nothing to achieve everything. Amelia Earhard and Daffodil both tells me about how they never really applied for jobs and how life just turned out for the best anyway. Perhaps I am jealous or delusional, or both, as I tend to struggle for even the mundane and mediocre. Fighting for each position, each success, for each happy moment. I’m sure it is just a reflection of my own demons fighting on the inside that models my behaviour on the outside.

A few days back I had a real personal setback. I guess, like a ripped off band aid, it is liberating when it all comes around to it. No real acknowledgements for the reality my own character’s struggle, but at least I don’t have to pretend to enjoy the fight anymore. Bitterness come as an aftertaste after all.

Maybe this duality is the irony of it all. That maybe I am just bored by my own existence. Yet there is no click on anything I do. No moment of feeling like I truly belong anywhere, doing any what or with any whom. It’s lead me to repeatedly doubt my desires, knowing they shift too easily. Dreams and fantasies are useless for guidance, like wrapped Christmas presents under the tree they are more exciting unexplored. Only without dreams, where do one steer one’s ship?

Maybe as a consequence of my thoughts, or for having returned to Sweden, I am becoming increasingly anti-social. I find myself having to force myself to engage in the conversations and activities I know I will enjoy, but hardly look forward to. So I travel to my friends and have a great time, yet I still shun the phone and writing messages. I just can’t see myself faking it realistically even in text form. Once or twice I tried to be honest instead. But no one really wants to hear whining on the phone, so I reserve that for the few souls who dare venture here… Poor bastards!