Mötet vid havet.

"Jag orkar mer än du tror".
Hon såg upp. Framför henne stod en pojke med en märklig mask över ansiktet. Hon gissade att det var en pojke på rösten. Men det skulle också kunna vara en kvinna, som gjorde sig till lite. Masken han hade på sig fick henne att tänka på alger och syltlök.
"Du kan inte stå där, jag målar av solnedgången", svarade hon.
"Åh, förlåt".
Han flyttade på sig, så att hon kunde fortsätta måla.
"Jo, jag ville bara säga det", fortsatte han, "att jag är liksom inte trött".
"Mhm".
"Jag har grävt hela dagen".
Hennes pensel gled viskande över duken och gav solnedgången toner av rosa tulpaner. Han fortsatte:
"Två, gånger två, gånger två. Pasta. Pastavaskare".
Hon såg upp, frågande.
"Varför har du den där konstiga masken på dig?".
Det blev tyst en stund. Hon kunde höra att han andades, där bakom. Bakom klipporna kunde höras små dova plums, som av någon som kastade stenar i havet. Det kunde också vara en häst som bajsade, men då måste det ha varit från någon av de högre klipporna, så att dess avföring fick tillräckligt med fart för att uppröra det stilla vattnet till den grad att dessa härligt plumsande läten fick eka i den lilla viken. Hon reste sig upp och såg på honom en stund, innan hon tog hans hand. Långsamt och vänligt strök hon honom över håret. Pojken vek bort blicken.
"Jag har gjort plommonpuré", sa han. "Den finns hemma i en burk. Men jag gillar inte att äta den på samma dagar som jag har grävt så här mycket. Då vill jag helst röka en cigarr".
Hon suckade och vände sig mot havet. De lugnt skvalpande vågorna lät som grönskimrande pärlemo och baklängeskastanjetter.
"Det är fint ikväll", sa hon.

Oh, free spirit
What role will you play next?
Yet another man
Taken from a text

Or a bus on diversion
For it's not easy
To be a free spirit
In a world of convention

Here. Put this diaper on your face. Make sure you change it every five hours. No, not the diaper, stupid. The face.

What would you do?

What would you do if your son was at home
Crying all alone on the bedroom floor
Cause he's hungry
And the only way to feed him is to
Sleep with a man clench up and save his semen and go home
And let it in the pan now
Fry it good for your son
Makin' omelette now
So for you this is just a good time
But for me this is cooking night

Mmm.

The Fear of the Backstab

Earlier today, as the King was walking down the path towards his breakfast, a thought was forced on him. He could hear footsteps close behind and was soon filled with dread. Someone wanted to kill him. Someone who probably was going for his dagger in this very moment. It was a lovely, sunny day and the greenery was beautiful around the small path he was walking on. Everything had been fine until the sound of these footsteps suddenly intruded on his mind. He had been fearing for this moment for a long time. He decided to try and keep his calm and threw a glance behind him. There was walking a man, seemingly with no dagger in hand, seemingly minding his own business. “Looks may deceive” thought the king smugly and was wondering how to best defend against his attacker. Up ahead the path was widening to fit at least two people walking side by side. The king picked up the pace and once he reached the wider path he decided to face his fear. He stepped aside and met his pursuer head-on. Much to his disappointment, the man behind him didn't so much as look as the King, as he quietly passed by, seemingly occupied with his own thoughts.

After the man had passed, the King felt hopelessly silly. Why didn't I just say 'good morning'? Why waste so much energy on the Fear of the Backstab, instead of enjoying his day and spreading a positive feeling to his fellow humans? Were they all this frightened of each other? Did they read so many foul stories that they stopped trusting each other entirely?

Why, wasn't that a saddening prospect.

The limit

And as he sat there, breathing in the mustiness of the old books, scrolls and tomes around him, it came to him. This was it. He had reached his limit. He had turned thirty and there no longer was any room for change or further learning. He looked down at the paper he had been reading. The text was there and everything he had read up to this point was crystal clear. But from there on, it was a blur. He had finished, mid-sentence, but the remainder of the text was just a jumble of signs, teasing him as if he had suddenly become illiterate.

Thirty years old. So this is what it feels like.

From now on, he would have to live on the skills and knowledge he had gathered thus far. Would it be enough? He would see soon enough. Time to sleep. Tomorrow, he would enter the fighting pit only known as Thirty Plus.

Frost

Frost had formed on the quay. Someone had scraped together a small amount of frost on the board walk ahead of me, forming a little white ball. I picked it up, thinking of how it must have been a child, longing for the first snow, shaping a would-be snowball in its little hands. As my fingers made their way around the white little creation, I noticed how it was not a would-be snowball at all. It was someone's used snot tissue.

Ponder me this

Shared joy may be doubled joy,

but shared madness is definitely halved madness.

Happy endings take a bunch of effort.