Kreativ skriving dere, en gang i uken. Det skalv litt i fingrene da jeg klokken to i dag tok imot fire eksemplarer av min egen tekst, hver fylt med individuelle streker, ringer og kommentarer. Vi skal alle skrive ned hva som fungerer, hva som forvirrer og hva som frustrerer i hverandres tekster. Jeg valgte å bygge min første tekst ut av et tidligere blogginnlegg (link her), og etter å ha kikket på hva de andre skribentene mener har jeg nå et andre utkast som jeg er enig i at er mye bedre (selv om det kanskje virker veldig likt). Jeg er lettet over å kjenne at det ikke var skummelt. Det var hjelpsomt, spennede og til tider veldig gøy å få detaljerte meninger om min 643 ords lange tekst. Jeg deler.
Perhaps it could yet matter
Is it you again? I think, and I mean it nonchalantly. In an I-have-not-been-waiting-around-for-this kind of way, but also in a why-is-it-always-you-over-and-over-and-over-again way. Because this record is broken. Regardless of how disappointed hurt angry you make me, it just takes a bit of time, no more than a few weeks, and one of your smiles, and I cannot stay disappointed hurt angryany longer. It seems like you are holding out your hand and saying, baby, I have time for you now, I see you, but you never do. You have never offered me your hand and you never told me you cared for me. But, oh, that smile, a smile that?s just for me. You need sunglasses for that smile. I have tried to put my foot down, but it?s pointless. My foot has already been firmly placed on the ground since spring, but when you softly brush your fingers across the back of my hand all my strength evaporates. Talking with you is dangerous, you look at me with those greengreen eyes your gaze engulfs me, you cannot possibly see anyone else when your eyes blaze like that. Shivers down my spine, goose bumps on my arms, and nothing but warm affection for you. You make me weak, so incredibly weak.
Today is the day you make me hopeful again, so I start spending ten extra minutes in the morning putting my make up on carefully and changing three extra times to make sure I have the right outfit. Internal storm. I become too nervous for coffee and morning toast, I want to stay calm and collected but with you I might as well have tried to speak Norwegian. Ikke glem meg igjen, vær så snill, jeg takler det ikke hvis du glemmer meg igjen. So when you turn to me and take my books and say good morning, how are you on this lovely day, I try to reply casually, but I become suddenly aware that my shoes are in a completely different shade of blue than my top, even after all the effort I went through to look my best. I stumble and mumble how?r you? and my palms feel sweaty, face red. Feet too big in mismatching shoes. I try to remember your habit of letting me down, but tomorrow might be the day you kiss my cheek, and I want that kiss.
The kiss leaves a dizzy memory that only fades after you disappear. I put it in my pocket, so I can take it out to admire when you?re not around, when doubt start lurking at the edge of my consciousness. Those ringing voices that tell me to look beyond you, beyond today. But the kiss! It will remind me that I felt your breath on my cheek, and the texture of you lips against my skin. The softness; you must care for me. I can see it in the curl of your lip, and that little soft spot in your cheek, an I?m-happy-you-are-around-spot. It appears in the corner of your mouth after your lips tattooed my skin, burning. Burning my fingertips as I delicately hide the kiss away.
Therefore, when you offer me nothing but silence the third day, I continue to cling to hope until the kiss crumbles in my hands. That is when I get disappointed. When the silence is loud enough to create echoes I start to hurt, and when it makes it hard to sleep at night I get angry. How could you do this to me again? Blackblack heart. Slowly the silence is filled with white noise, then chatter, and finally music, and you become a stranger in the corridor, a magnetic field with the wrong charge, that my eyes just slide by.
But you always return.