It’s night and I see that name on the screen. I hate that he is there. That he sits by a computer somewhere, across town probably, simply existing. Without realizing how it affects me. 35 minutes away on the subway, and still completely and so utterly inaccessible. Facebook is a source of much unhappiness and frustration.
And I know I write these things a lot. Excepting the travel journals and book reviews, the cryptic texts about some kind of crush hang up are probably the most common here. Even more so lately. If you follow my blog, you might get the impression that I always carry around on some unrequited love. And maybe that is true, in a sense, that I have a kind of longing in me that just changes direction from time to time.
But it does not consume me. Not anymore. Not like when I was 17. I do other things, I spend my days being happy and content and excited about things, lately even more so than usually. I learn things. I go to meetings and feel important. I spend my weekends taking walks with my friends or the nights dancing with them, feeling pretty and full of life. I plant seeds and watch them stick up their tiny little green heads from the damp dirt. I go running every morning, listening to podcasts and marvel about the beauties of the Swedish spring. I plan eurotrips and hand-write letters to friends across the sea.
I do things. But I don’t write about them. It’s at night, when I sit by my computer before going to bed, when it’s dark outside and I’m a little bit tired. That’s when they hit me, these recollections and frustrations and that’s when I feel the need to write. Why write about the happy stuff? It’s already perfect.
No, write about the heart-ache. Because that is a condition that can improve.
Katja Malmborg 