The paint roller leaves an unmistakable wet white line over the already white wall. Feeling like I’m being attacked by my own presumptuousness, I am forced to realise that the wall was not actually white, but stained, yellowed and dirty. It is humbling to be reminded of how wrong our perception is so very often. The realisation also makes the painting action even more satisfactory than I had expected and we end up transforming all the walls, not just the intended one. With a small roller in my hands, I wonder what on my soul appears to me white, but really needs a new batch of paint as well.

Almost two weeks ago I arrived together with Johnny Bravo to this new city. In this new home. In this unknown environment that beats me with the familiarity of it all. Being back in Sweden is a strange mixture of emotions. It is a place I left many years ago to expand my horizon, to try (and fail) to find myself and to learn a thing or two about some things I might have taken for granted. Life is insolently comfortable here. The pay is good. The people look mostly happy. The streets are clean in this city tucked in between lakes, hills and forests. I have nothing that I can justify to myself to complain about. Life is good here.

I’m here for a promotion, choosing a career over adventure this time. I’ve postponed growing up so many times, it is with a yet unaccepted level of comfort that I find myself having a permanent job in which I make more money than I can imagine that I will ever be able to spend – but probably will anyway, actually owning my own home – or rather letting the bank own it in my name, and being one half in a distance relationship I am not ready to give up on – hoping they won’t either. Is this what adulthood looks like? Is this the first stage of nailing yourself to, not a cross, but the floor of convenience? Stuck, simply because life is just too good as it is to challenge it.

… and so our white walls slowly turn yellow, in the ticking moments when we do nothing to change them.

… and maybe that is ok.