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Your parent cells are swimming in the deepest ocean looking for the perfect house. A house underwater is difficult to maintain due to certain amounts of pressure on the walls and pillars holding the structure of the house in place. Depending on how far down your parents decide to live, also, electricity becomes more expensive, because at a certain depth there is no more natural light, which of course means running the lamps longer. You are too preoccupied to notice this because you have not been born yet, you have not been made a good daughter cell. Your parents have slept through binaries and have tried to furnish one hundred empty rooms for you, limp-wrist zygotes, screaming as you appear as if from nowhere in hospital beds, onto the floor. This multiple birth process is eventually confusing because your mother starts to forget which child you are and you are orphaned back into the ocean. There are only so many children she can take care of. Your fraternal brothers and sisters cannot follow you. A family cannot stay together in this situation. Fertilization has not yet been governed by the great sea. You are only one small part of this process, and you must fend yourself. Your brothers and sisters will certainly try to find you, to put your bodies back together again, but you cannot let them. Who are they anyway? Do you know? If you were to even want to call out their names, which in the water is difficult to do as the sound is denser, would you know what to call them?

Etter mange måneder dukket faren min opp. Han hadde aldri sett huset vårt. Han var innesluttet og mistroisk, men han tok en kopp kaffe.

Nå er jeg ikke i stand til å leve opp til det som ventes av meg. På alle de stedene jeg er blitt tatt med til, har jeg etterlatt biter av meg selv, og i dag vet jeg ikke hvordan jeg skal bygge opp igjen min splintrede verden, finsiktet som sand i mitt personlige territorium.

“Du gir alltid, sa terapeuten min.
Du må lære å ta. Når du møter
en kvinne, er det første du gjør
å låne henne bøkene dine. Du
tror hun blir nødt til å møte deg igjen
for å kunne gi dem tilbake.
Men det som skjer er at hun ikke
har tid til å lese dem & hun frykter
at hvis dere møtes igjen, kommer
du til å forvente at hun skal snakke
om dem & at du vil låne henne
enda flere. Derfor avlyser
hun avtalen. Resultatet
er at du mister mange bøker.
Du burde låne hennes.”

“I am angry that I starved my brain and that I sat shivering in my bed at night instead of dancing or reading poetry or eating ice cream or kissing a boy…”

Anna har truffet en mann
hun er så forelsket at hun gråter
venter på telefon
når han endelig ringer
gråter hun enda mer
han liker også å reise og å slappe av på sofaen

I knew I had an ugly life. I knew I was lonely and I was scared. I thought something might be wrong with my father, wrong in the worst possible way. I believed he might contain a pathology of the mind--an emptiness--a knocking hollow where his soul should have been. But I also knew that one day, I would grow up. One day, I would be twenty, or thirty, or forty, even fifty and sixty and seventy and eighty and maybe even one hundred years old. And all those years were mine, they belonged to nobody but me. So even if I was unhappy now, it could all change tomorrow. Maybe I didn't even need to jump off the cliff to experience that kind of freedom. Maybe the fact that I knew such a freedom existed in the world meant that I could someday find it.
Maybe, I thought, I don't need a father to be happy. Maybe, what you get from a father you can get somewhere else, from somebody else, later. Or maybe you can just work around what's missing, build the house of your life over the hole that is there and always will be.

"Det handler om å gå. Å begi seg av gårde til fots, ned den åpne veien; en romatisk øvelse som fører til en del harde erfaringer: å sove ute, gå seg vill, møte egne begrensninger og andre mennesker, natur og byer; drive gatelangs i Paris og Istanbul, krysse broer og grenser; gå inn i fremmede land, ukjente områder. Den gående er uten beskyttelse og hjem, uten hastighet og bestemte mål, han går for å komme nærmere det han ser og møter på reisen. Han vil leve et vilt og poetisk liv. Han finner sine egne ruter, men gjør også avstikkere langs sporene til kjente vandrere fra litteraturhistorien: Rousseau, Wordsworth, Hölderlin og Rimbaud; han leser dikerne og filosofene for å forsøke å lære seg den kusten det er å gå.

jeg står planta
i en opparbeida rus
med nye sko
og uten snøring

tror at driten jeg har opplevd gir meg karakter

I like flaws and feel more comfortable around people who have them. I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.

I understood at once, I am not living, but actively dying. I am smoking, living unhealthily. I’m shutting down. I need to go the other way, inside. And it was so clear to me what I was doing. It was suddenly perfectly clear.

I understood, I need to write. Live here, in my words, and my head. I need to go inside, that’s all. No big, complicated, difficult thing. I just need to go in reverse. And not worry about what to write about, but just write. Or, if I’m going to worry about what to write, then do this worrying on paper, so at least I’m writing and will have a record of the anxiety

Like every child, I adored her. Until I formed a brain and got to know her.

...I don't think it's any more deceptive than wearing four-inch come-fuck-me pumps when one has no intention of ever fucking anybody

It’s a wonder I’m even alive. Sometimes I think that. I think that I can’t believe I haven’t killed myself. But there’s something in me that just keeps going on. I think it has something to do with tomorrow, that there is always one, and that everything can change when it comes.

My mother began to go crazy. Not in a 'Let's paint the kitchen red!' sort of way. But crazy in a 'gas oven, toothpaste sandwhich, I am God' sort of way.

I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention. For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks-accidentally-and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.

Think of your head as an unsafe neighborhood; don't go there alone.