Fargestifter

Farg meg med fargestifter
for jeg eier ikke kontraster

Farg meg med fargestifter
når mitt liv er grått

Farg meg med fargestifter
selv om de nesten er tomme

Farg meg med fargestifter
jeg orker ikke selv

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Absence

It is a special feeling, to miss something.
Yet, it’s not actually missing anything, it’s just not where it’s supposed to be. The space that should be filled sits there, waiting. Time passes, but nothing comes. There is not a single thing that replaces the void. You know what is needed. Deep down inside that hole is a voice screaming out  what it needs, its desires.
The horrific feeling of not accomplishing anything without that thing, that object, feeling or person. Being an absolute failure. How can you possibly do anything when you’re not even whole. There’s not much missing, just that tiny bit. A fraction of a being, but so unbelievably valuable. With it, you are fulfilled. The thoughts that arrive, the ideas that are created, the faith that has arrived is remarkable. Anything can be accomplished. The world is beneath your feet.

Isn’t it dreadful?
To believe that you are incomplete. Normally, you are nothing. Cannot do anything extraordinary. Cannot stun the world. Knowing that you are capable of so much more, but waiting for that little piece of self. It drains you. Your mind beat you up, force you to believes the lies of failure.

You have to fight against the destructive thoughts lurking behind shut doors. The ideas that attempts to root in your head shall never find its place. The capacity of yourself is beyond thought. So far beyond that the motivation and faith that joins you together with your missing link disappears. Hold on to it, do you hear me? They don’t vanish together with your piece. It can grow inside you. On its own. Extend your faith, and believe in yourself.

Time isn’t passing

If the digital clock made noises I would memorize them all, organize them in order of loudness and endurance. The numbers never change. The music in the background floats. Each song is noticed. Shuffling the songs doesn’t make them more interesting. They are all the same. Nothing changes. Each detail in the room is recognized. For every look there’s nothing new to see. They don’t move. Every light flickers. The atoms move. They vibrate. They live. Supposedly.