It’s Sunday evening. I’ve had a nice weekend, really, I have – but still. The frustration. My arms and shoulders are aching and I keep going over scenarios in my head. What I would say if. What I should do to.
I went bouldering on Friday, for the first time in my life, it was a spontaneous thing, I ran into Lina at university and she was going with a couple of her classmates and I turned out to not suck at it. With any kind of sports activity, that’s usually what I do. Suck, I mean. But, I think, being an ex-rider and show jumper, with a weakness for the young, wild and slightly crazy horses, has left me kind of fearless for heights and speed. It’s the same with my downhill skiing – I’m crap, but god do I go fast. It was fun, the bouldering. I think I will go again.
And yesterday, Frida had her birthday party and I danced with her and Cecilia and Isak and Axel and Jocke until three in the morning. How did I ever manage to get so many great friends.
But here I am, Sunday evening, with a slight headache and sore forearm muscles, waiting for something to happen. Not like I could expect anything to happen. I haven’t put anything in motion. Things don’t just happen.
I’m listening to Mozart’s piano concertos and reading my old poems. I used to be such a teenager. And in many ways, I still am.
I’m listening to Chet Baker and feeling weepy. Not that I’m sad. The world outside my window is just so foggy, like a 19th century painting and trumpet solos are just so much more melancholy than what a Sunday evening can take.
I have an economics exam on Tuesday, but all I want to do is get lost. What a weird post this ended up becoming.
Katja Malmborg 