Traveling in Time

There’s a sickness in my veins. It slowly consumes me, makes me passive and content with as little as possible. Eventually nothing will matter but simple existing. I sit on my mothers lawn with my legs crossed and let the wind flow around me. Sometimes I think it pierces me and flows trough the holes in my skin. At that very moment I feel like smoke, or maybe fog. Something that have appeared for just a moment and will soon be scattered by the wind amongst the trees. Some days I feel that that’s how solid my personality is. Always shifting and changing shape. Other days I’m the one that decides which shape is the right one, which mode I want to push onto others. Those days I am obnoxious and bold. I am the commander of those around me. Their center and hub to which they come for guidance and enlightenment. Things are as they should. I am in control, if so only of myself. Not that I imagine that I am in full control at any given time, but when you reach a certain degree the illusion of it appears.
I always turn my thoughts inwards like this when visiting my moms place. She’s moved to a little fishing community where we used to live while growing up, so it feels a little like traveling back in time whenever I come to visit. If I take a walk it unleashes a barrage of fragmented memories that take a while for me to puzzle together. It’s worth it though, because when you travel back into your own personal history you get a better understanding of time and history as a whole. Your brain starts playing “connect the dots”, which sometimes leads to interesting results. You remember that time you and your friends rode your bicycles to a farmer a bit away to buy fresh milk. We were on a mission of utmost importance, and felt like we were practically grownups already. Of course we raced back on our bikes, because mom was going to make ice cream from the cream that floats up on top of the milk.Or that time when we found a car tire and decided to roll it down the outside staircase. It was all a highly entertaining game, until someone passed by and noticed the marks the tire left on the storage it had been hitting at the bottom of the stairs. The rest of that day was spent with hot bubbly water and hard brushes trying to get the rubber off the wall and door.
One of the houses we lived in is gone now. It was small, worn out little house rented out by an angry old man. Once we had to rush home from the beach to watch Robocop on the smallest tv you ever saw, but since mom had the keys we formed a human pyramid and I climbed inside trough the little window above the door. That day we felt like we could do anything. It soon evaporated in awe of the transformation and redemption of Alex Murphy.

From last weekend, somewhere outside Varberg in Sweden.

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