Landing

A week of moaning, crying, wondering and wandering only to arrive here. In my old bed in my childhood’s room with a cup of tea on one side and a slice of mud cake on the other. My mother just came in and asked if I wanted something else.

I am such a spoiled kid.

I have been writing depressing posts that I (luckily) have not published.

Instead I took a long walk to the ocean. It was frozen still except for a small crack in the ice where the water was performing a celebration dance in the sun. I sat a watched for a while on a bench.

The same bench where my mother sits on a black and white photograph. I lay in the pram next to her. This is also the beach, where I awkwardly walked covered up in clothes, the path to the kiosk, secretly admiring the other 13-year old girls playing volleyball in bikini. Around the corner is the parking lot, where I seven years later, failed my first driving test.

But now. I just look at the water and the sun and my mind is completely blank.

Time is so twisted sometimes.

I have been feeling empty, but slowly my cup is filling up again.

I realize that this is the greatest test.

All my writing, my gratitude, my philosophy is tested here. In my home town.

With old accustomed ideas and comfortable behaviours. All my talk about seeing the positive side of things, well, it may not be as clear and radiating as a fresh summer’s day in Cape Town, but beauty is constant. It’s just a matter of reflections and I need to be affirmative.

Yesterday one of my best childhood buddies called me up and said he was going to a party in a huge red wooden house in the county and invited me to come. He said there would be some interesting people there which sounded like something I needed. And true, by the end of the night we were all sitting and talking about otherworldly experiences, other dimensions and karma.

And I saw the first pristine starry sky in the Northern hemisphere in more than a year.

That I later ended up on the so called “sky bar” on Möljen and paid a stupid amount of money for a Mojito in which the bartender forgot to put sugar, that the place closed ten minutes later and I did a walk in on Stadshotellet, ran into my brother who gave me the worst rum drink I’ve had in my life and that him, his boss and me were shaking our asses on the empty dance floor to songs from 2002 before I, in the freezing night, hailed a car and asked the driver to take me home for whatever I had left in my pocket, are just matters that come with this package.

Of being home. In “Glada Hudik”.