I am in my hotel bed and look out the window. It feels like I lived in Söder –
Clouds rush and dangling legs to Folkungagatan.
The opposite system, young and expecting.
I live five stairs in a small attic.
The fridge sounds high at night, my father has just died and on the days that I send bath bombs to the first influencers of society.
Årstaviken becomes my arena – I run and the soul finally becomes peace. Move me through seasons where spring summer will be, the summer will be this fall. In the winter my always thinner body is heated by rustling lids and itchy polyester.
In December I take the way through Hammarby Sjöstad, meet men from a distant life, houseboats with candles and a carbon black darkness of the elderly.
My Stockholm. “If we had lived here, my life would have been easy,” I send to one of all chat groups.
I smile when I see them on hold.
In sunglasses, Italian vintage shoes and
With an aqueous aperol for SEK 160.
That friendship lasts over time, where the holes are larger than the presence – what a gift. That someone is waiting, has patience and there is anyway.
September is here, but we are still out.
Olive oil on light jeans and middle dishes shared seven.
My wrist is calm, but the gut feeling in rebellion.
We did well, why did we do it?
I hurry through the middle of the knitted sweater.
“Autumn,” they said? It is 23 degrees hot and the scent of urine, concrete and dirty walls reach me in the escalator.
Stockholm, I am at home for a while.
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#Middle #dishes #gut #feeling #rebellion #September