för den som letar -- lars winnerbäck

Känner du hur längtan tar
Hur du sträcker dig och stretar
Bakom varje hög av sand
Finns guld för den som letar
För den som letar

Minns du morgonljus eller svärta
Ser du lampan slocknad eller tänd?
Minns du hennes brinnande hjärta
Blev du värmd då eller blev du bränd?

Newcastle Brown Ale might be among the better things I've drank in quite a while. Now that was truly, truly delicious, even when drank to beefs made of minced chicken with pasta.

With that worrying starting paragraph, I want to add that this is not the beer talking, despite me failing to resist the temptation to add a Kilkenny to the list of consumed beers this Friday evening.

There has been a lot to do lately -- schoolwork in the form of Extended Essay and TOK-essay plus various other things. I still need to read that bloody The Handmaid's Tale, despite having had the first twelve chapters spoiled by now. C'est la vie, I assume, but I will still cherish the day when I, and not IBO's list of approval, chose my weekend-reading.

Autumn's here for real. The winds are tearing at the buildings, the leaves have ended their yellow-phase and now entered the lie-brown-on-the-street-until-dissolving-phase. It rains now and then, the skies are grey and my mind constantly wanders off. There seems to be so much time spent on nothing in particular, so many hours and days spent on the bless and curse of public transport, alternatively sitting and wasting space, alone by the bleak, eternal shine of my computer screen.

I need a break from tradition and habit unless I will either flip out completely next year and spend the whole academic year roaming the streets of Lund in a gin-induced haze, occasionally urinating in the Botanical Garden, or just spend even more time by this ohsolovely desk, screen and den of mine.

Or I will just have forgotten it all by tomorrow again, as I tend to. Feh.


thunder road (live at the hammersmith odeon) -- bruce springsteen

The screen door slams,
Mary's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch
as the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely,
Hey that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again
Don't run back inside,
darling you know just what I'm here for
So you're scared and you're thinking
that maybe we ain't that young anymore
Show a little faith there's magic in the night,
you ain't a beauty but hey you're alright,
oh and that's alright with me

You can hide 'neath your covers
and study your pain,
Make crosses from your lovers
throw roses in the rain
Waste your summer praying in vain
for a saviour to rise from these streets
Well now I'm no hero,
that's understood
All the redemption I can offer, girl,
is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey what else can we do now ?
Except roll down the window,
and let the wind blow
back your hair

Bruce Springsteen, you're lucky that I am heterosexual and that you are far away from me both geographically and socially because otherwise I'd fucking kiss you. This whole evening has been a walk across a field deep with mud: nothing feels appealing; the world can screw itself over; so can schoolwork and ambitions; so can society and civilisation itself. It's been one long low that I've just wanted to end by retiring to a warm bed and stay there for a while, but given all the things I need to do that would have been highly irresponsible.

So how to solve it? Live through it and reincarnate the next day? Give up and go to sleep?

Hell no.

Turn on the eminent record Hammersmith Odeon, London '75 by The Boss, lie back and listen. Yes, the joyfully performed ode to youth Spirit in the Night is a gem, as is the hard-to-interpret but oh, so enjoyable and grimy Lost in the Flood. The best, however, is and remains Thunder Road, opening track of the CD and an elegic song about love, hope and cars. When hearing Bruce Springsteen wailing how he ain't young anymore I am close to starting screaming myself. It's such beauty, it's such poetry and it's got something undefinable that makes my blood stream properly in my veins again when everything frankly feels like shit.

Music is a force in itself. I guess that makes Springsteen Yoda, at the very least.

Hell, you'll never read this, Bruce, but hear me on this: some days I wonder how the hell I would keep walking with my back straight without you and the E Street Band accompanying me through the soundwaves. Thank you.


some say the devil is dead -- cruachan

Some say the devil is dead, the devil is dead, the devil is dead,
some say the devil is dead and buried in Killarney

More say he rose again, more say he rose again,

more say he rose again and joined the British army.

Well, Celtic heavy metal is always cheering up, of course. Considering the weather appears to make me chronically sleepy and that the whole world seems to have entered some collective low this evening it feels rather suitable.

Not much to report lately -- spent the weekend in the forest where I had little time to do anything else than take one walk and shoot in total 50 shotgun rounds. Yes, it sounds barbaric but no, I'm not hunting; I'm only exerting the oh-so-pleasant rounds powder and lead onto unknowing doves of clay. It is meditation in its purest form: load the gun; close it; fire away a dove; aim; steady; shoot; open the gun, take out the round and blow the smoke out of the pipes. Nothing exists around you -- no past or present -- no possessions and no religion too. It's you, the gun, the target and a trigger-happy finger.

I know I always manage to sound like a maniac when talking about shooting but hey, it's a waterhole. I'd do it at least once every week if I had the possibility.

School starting again tomorrow, bugger. Psychology test coming up and need to prepare for both High School Exhibition and Open House. After that a ton of essays damned all the way into eternity and then Christmas. Then driving-license, February break, revision period, exams, graduation, IB Diploma ceremony and then we are all catapulted out into real life. I am still not completely sure about what I feel regarding that; I do want IB to be over and I do want to get out into real life, but the question is what in the name of all that's holy I'll do next year, before going abroad. Job? Well, I need to find one and the economic crisis doesn't seem very beneficial right now. Studying? Yea, I'll study something at Lund at least, but I don't know what, where or when. I'll probably end up living at home anyway, to save money.

This doesn't seem as exalting as when I first thought of it. Ah bugger, it still feels to early to venture 'cross the sea as early as next fall.

I should do homework.


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