Friday, 26 September 2008


She had always been alone. Growing up with her parents didn’t make her less lonely. Her parents didn’t seem to notice her; they strolled along here and there, partying, working, and travelling. On Christmas Eve they gave her presents and for her birthdays she got a load of parcels wrapped by good smelling and elegant shop assistants.

They were her parents, they cared for her, but they didn’t need her.

In school it was the same. Other pupils didn’t tease her, she was left alone. She was invisible for others. Teachers were amazed when they returned her exams, they looked at her wondering if she was a new pupil or had they seen her before.

She had no friends to be with after school, so she returned to her empty home, took a book and started to read till it was time to go to bed. If she got hungry, she went silently to the kitchen, opened the fridge and ate what she found. This didn’t happen often, because she didn’t know what hunger was. She had no needs, no desires.

After graduating she moved to her own flat and got a job. Living on her own didn’t make her visible, and her life went on the same way it had used to go. She seemed to melt into shadows.

Her parents died, but she didn’t miss them. She didn’t long for their presents, brightly wrapped parcels. She sold their house, her childhood home, but kept the books that had belonged to them.

She grew old, and one day she died. She was found, when neighbours complained about the smell coming from her flat. She lay in her bed, still holding a book in her hands. It was a book about rebirth. She had always been peculiar, the neighbours told to the police. No wonder, reading such books.

Thursday, 18 September 2008


The weekly theme for

Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Doing Is Enough

My plan to write and blog less has succeeded quite well, and I’ve found time to play as I planned earlier. I’ve also had time to read and do some singing, since the singing lessons started once again with the fall.

It’s been enjoyable to play the piano, not necessarily for the ears but to the mind. It’s pacifying to run fingers through scales, hit a note, and find a melody. They are all there: the notes. You don’t have to invent any.
Same as in writing: all the words already exist; you just have to put them in some kind of order. Or disorder. It’s up to you, and that’s the enchanting part of creating.
You’re able to do everything.
At least you can try. Attempt can also be satisfying, and you may notice that in the end the result means less. You don’t have to achieve to be content.

Doing is enough.

Friday, 12 September 2008

The Smile of the Sun

The sun reappeared after some days of rain. No, it has been pouring. Day and night, but yesterday the sun decided to take a look at us.
She’s still smiling. She looks approvingly at the leaves, bitten my frost during the night. Bites have been strong, the leaves have bled.
It’s burgundy, cherry, all kinds of red everywhere, and where the icy teeth of the winter-to-be haven’t bitten; there are spots of orange, yellow and green still to be seen.

The sun continues to beam. It’s going to be a cold night, the prologue of an everlasting season.
The sun knows it’s her time to take a nap, to sleep for some months.
No wonder she is grinning.

Sunday, 7 September 2008

Friday, 5 September 2008

Monday, 1 September 2008

More time

I wish I had more time. More hours in a day. There’s so much I’d like to do, so little time. I have to work, I love to sleep –these two require a lot of my time.

I used to play the piano a lot when I was younger, but nowadays it’s a rare thing for me to do. My time is spent –besides work, everyday life and sleep- in writing, taking pictures, reading and socializing. Some blogging, too. One day I sat by the piano and started to play, and I remembered the joy playing used to bring to me.

Well, to hear the tunes I managed to get out of the piano was not a joy; my fingers are stiff, my skills rusty, but nevertheless, I had a sensation similar to the one a long time ago.


I grabbed also the guitar in my enthusiasm, the 12-string. Oh no. Far too difficult, so I took the six-string beauty in my lap and tried to lure some blues out of her.

It was quite awful, and now my fingertips are sore.

I must practise. I really have to. Maybe it means less writing, less picture making. Less blogging.

I believe it’s worth it.