“Although you may not stumble across a Martian in the garden, you might stumble across yourself. The day that happens, you'll probably also scream a little. And that'll be perfectly all right, because it's not every day you realize you're a living planet dweller on a little island in the universe.” ― jostein Gaarder, the solitaire mystery
"I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something. Holding onto that there's some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for."
Lever I granslandet mellan drom och verkligehet. Balanserar pa linjen, alternerar mellan att tappa balansen in i bada. Inte sa mycket vanliga dagar nu for tiden. Dod eller ara, varje dag maste jag valja.
Att borja blogga som 16 aring, att bli hittad av livet sjalvt och sen bli sa upptagen med det att man inte hinner formedla sig till omvarlden, till mamma, till pappa, till vannerna och saga HAR AR DET. Det ar sa det kanns, skrackinjagande och fantastiskt. Att fa chansen att leva sadar som manniskorna gor pa filmerna, for nagonting som ar sa mycket storre an livet sjalvt.
Ater banan, kex och dricker avslagen cola. Vissa saker andras inte for att man raker bli sjuk i Rmanien istallet for Sverige. Har last ut en bok, tittar ut genom fonstret, ser varen anlanda med stormsteg och sla rot utanfor fonstret. Ma den komma fort. Vedan borjar ta slut, och det ligger fortfarande kvar en snohog i hornet av varan tradgard. Tystnaden som ett opium.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars
- Jack Kerouac