Det är så jävla svårt

How can something so insanely wonderful take such a fast turn and become something ugly and consuming. I can't even put this to words, I'm so angry.

I just went running like a maniac, ran past my old school, stopped to cry a little, ran even harder, stopped to cry again, realised that the sobbing little creature in the window's reflection was me, and then let my feet go.

And it's about money, isn't it always. Either money or boys. This time probably both.

I mean, I knew living in Islingon or near Covent Garden wasn't going to be cheap and I wasn't expecting it to be. But I didn't know a year could cost me a year's savings and a whole Summer.

I was supposed to go to Copenhagen, then travel around, then come home for a while and say goodbye to everything and everyone and go to London. But hey, things never go as planned.

I know I'm being childish and selfish (I mean, look at all the I-letters in this post) but this still stings. A lot. More than anything ever.

This was supposed to be the last carefree Summer before diving into a world that's so new and exciting and draining and difficult and rewarding. This was supposed to be the time to really fall in love with that boy in Copenhagen and smell of coffee beans every night after work, have tanned skin and sea salt and sand everywhere and a sun that shines so powerfully that you feel like you can't breathe.

This is turning into a nightmare. I'm not good with money, I'm only good at being young. I feel like quitting but I know London and where I'm going is a chance of a lifetime that, to be honest with you, most people will never get. I know I'm being irrational. I know I'm being an asshole. I'm simply angry. So angry that I feel like not breathing ever again.

I'm so angry and sad and confused that I just couldn't gather the courage to run across that bridge over the highway. Because, you know that people are divided into two categories:

Those, who don't feel a thing when they cross a bridge.

And those who, when standing somewhere high get a tingling in their body and however happy and full of life they might be cannot stop thinking of a simple thought: what if I jumped now?

I don't know how I'm going to survive. But I will do it, fuck this I will do it.

So I read to myself: a chance of a lifetime to see new horizons

Gaddafi's dead and I'm worried about gaining a few pounds, not having enough money to vanish for three months and not having proper shoes for the winter. A plethora of first-world problems.

I've sent all my university applications and I should be receiving answers any week now. I could talk about this for a lifetime, reviewing all the chances I'm taking and how happy I feel, but I'm shortening it to this: I'm scared to death, but my leopard print-loving grandmother is so convinced I'll get in and meet a handsome english earl, she's started to learn English. In her mind, there's no reason a blonde girl should not marry an english aristocrat.

Next weekend is going to be time to hop on a bus, drive 166 km on the E18 and spend the weekend in a strange city with lovely people. I'm relieved. In order to not get fed up, everyone should change scenery once in a while, even if it's only for two and a half days.

P.S. This is the new me, through a grainy picture; shorter bleached hair and a top to match - I need to start prepping up for my english aristocrat and he should definitely be one who owns a yacht club.

Written while being extremely stressed out but exhaustingly inspired

The city looks like someone practiced their watercolor painting skills on it every time it rains. The season's approaching that dreadful bit when every morning's cold and every evening is coloured in by the awfully yellow streetlights that shine on the wet streets and actually make you a bit nauseous.

I chopped my long hair off on Friday evening. No more summer-in-the-Hamptons-ponytails for me, but I'll be fine, alright.

I don't know if it's my new platinum blonde hair's fault, but I feel inspired by everything and anything, no traces of feeling blue here anymore. Why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see? Kerouac puts it like it is, again.

And while I struggle to find the feeling you get when you're traveling - that anything could happen soon, the simple things make me happier than I ever thought.

Sunny Sundays, running, phone calls, grocery shopping in the market hall in Hakaniemi, pink lipstick, an obnoxious and ruthless and fun conversation across the kilometers to Berlin in the middle of the night, birthdays and parties and a roadtrip to Turku in a couple of weeks' time. Oh, and awful evenings in the worst aussie bar in the world.

I know the next dark rainy evening will get me down and blue again, but I won't let it bruise me bad this time.

"We dream of the perfect wave, the perfect job, the perfect house and when we get there, we dream of something else" and other clichés that are true

I usually hate inspiration photographs because most of the time they're unnecessary and end up showcasing the same old clichés. But a lot of them tend to be true: traveling will probably make you free, doing things alone will probably make you stronger, falling in love with new people will probably make your life more beautiful, being near the ocean will probably make you happier.

I have a folder for these cliché-pictures, -songs and -videos. It's called breathe slower and don't panic. It consists of pictures of boys in dapper outfits, black-and-white shots of old English universities, Paris, the Indian ocean from a thousand different angles, bungalows, sand, old postcards and nicely put words - what I want my near future to look like. My favourite breathe slower and don't panic-picture is an old postcard, sent from Paris, saying these exact words: "Not quite New York, but not bad."

Pictures: from my breathe slower and don't panic-folder; a map of Lombok, screenshots from The Endless Summer and Rob Machado's The Drifter and a satellite map.

Videos: the trailer of The Drifter (it seems like a proper piece of over-dramatized second-hand embarrassment, but is worth the watch), The Endless Summer and Riding Giants which included the most impressive waves I've ever seen.

These are basically my anti-depressants, try them when in need.

Body parts

Sometimes I find myself overwhelmed with fear. And not the small kind that tickles your stomach a bit and feels fine, but the kind that takes you in a stranglehold and doesn't let go no matter how hard you kick and bite back.

The most beautiful word for this kind of feeling is a Swedish word. It's almost beautiful enough to make it all seem small and pointless and a bit sweet, too. But even livrädd isn't enough to make tonight's worries small and sweet, it doesn't sweep these feelings away when you say it out loud or write it down.

I try not to worry about anything. The days go by in a gentle fashion. I work from nine to five and sometimes get to meet amazing people with true stories. Sometimes I suffer from older gentlemen in trench coats, who are unwillingly scary when they come closer only to wink and quickly walk away. Sometimes I get headaches, sometimes I'm genuinely very very happy. Sometimes I find myself thinking about nights in Nice. Most of the time I shake the thoughts away as quick as they come.

What I truly am livsrädd for is the time to come. In a couple of months' time I am supposed to really board that plane - and currently my plans only involve myself and the backpack that has seen beaches and cities and everything of importance. I'm not afraid to say it out loud: I'm very afraid of leaving alone, but I'll have to do it.

Du behöver någonting större. I don't know if this is it, but it probably won't kill to try.