God, some days I think I am romancing myself. Does your head ever play sick tricks like that on you? “No, I don’t want you to date him because you deserve better.” Really now? Fortell meg hvem jeg fortjener då. This is all some game part of me invented to entertain the other half out of boredom and ensomhet.

There is a lyric in Nek’s “L’Anno Zero,” that has been ringing in my head lately:
Stanco di chi mi scalda il letto.
How true.

I’m back to doing what I’m so good at doing: waiting. Men jeg vil ha ham, og kun ham.

I wait for those little moments with him: sul treno, på færja, quand nous buvons, when we stay in silence.
Those little moments and little victories we don’t get enough of: comparing fingers with Mom and remarking how similar they are; that singular moment at Coyote Hills when you take in all that gold and turquoise and boundless beauty; the self-reaffirmation that I deserve better.
Life is tough sometimes–and I don’t mean homeless African orphans tough–I mean that it tears at you, makes you feel lonely, makes you feel bitter and defeated, makes you doubt yourself; but I’m confident I’ll turn out alright.

I haven’t written lately because I’ve discovered the secret joys of keeping a handwritten journal, in Norwegian. I get a kick out of writing in public and on BART now–it’s a great way to think and not worry people thinking you’re weird/retarded/queer.

Meanwhile, I got tired of watching Life drift on past my window and being lethargic and watching Friends all day (which, I might mention–gives you a false pretense of what friendship should be like…right? I sure wish I had a Chandler.) so I decided to get started on a demo album, thanks to Garageband.

Here’s to the little moments.
L’Anno Zero

Långt Härifrån

L’hirondelle, laissez-la en paix. Elle peut continuer à voler comme un symbole de l’innocence, et aimée par tout le monde.

But I would much rather be down here with my two feet planted on the ground in the air.

Det er den forskjellen som skiller oss. Kanskje hu er riktig; tydeligvis har hu det bra. But it is a sacrifice I won’t be making. I will not give up myself to be accepted. I will not give up Me.

Quanti sguardi ci sono in un’occhiata? Il le regarde, et je me demande s’il sent le même regard que je sens. Yo, he visto una mirada de adoración, ¿pero cómo era su mirada, veramente? What did he—the recipient—see? ¿Lo mismo? Un de chaleur et confort? O di qualcos’altro?

Was it as reassuring to him as it seemed to me? A-t-il juré fidélité? ¿O era un desafío, una advertencia para encender el temor? Un’occhiata è delicata, complessa, e a volte scaltra.

Бьорн Айнар Станге, эршицзю суй.
헨닝 여한센, 알스죠 岁.

완상 죠댠, 츠완 피사 허, 헨닝 在 믄外 졔的 워. 타 长得 흔 샹 술음. 워믄 在 루상 죠 开스 搞롼. 开따오 타믄 쟈 호, 워 쟌따오了 “숑 哎날”–
–Бьорн. J’étais intimidé par lui. Il était comme personne d’autre que j’ai déjà vu. To say “shuài” is an understatement. Nous avons parlé un peu, un échange superficiel des mots et formalités.
란호 타믄 바 워 링따오 睡房.

헨닝 在 嘴리, 숑 哎날 在 배호. 깐줴超负荷.

E poi, c’è stato un momento in cui siamo stati soli: Бьорн и я. Det kunne ikke vært mer enn et øyeblikk, men er det ikke alltid de få sekundene som vi husker for evig?

Le sue mani sui miei fianchi…
타 슨츤的 상인 在 워 알팡, 칭칭的 끈 워 说..
Så deilig.

헨닝 꿔忽儿 回라이了, 开스 파이照.
아이완了 호 워믄 坐着 랴오了 이忽儿 탼, 란호 헨닝 송了 워 回쟈.

You do strange things to me.
You are a paradox like nobody’s business,
but I suppose I could’ve gathered that.
Tu est comme ta peau.

So pensive, yet in such a simple, innocent manner.
You still ask the questions long beaten out of the rest of us,
and say the things we were taught not to say any longer.
You cut through my defenses
with the unpretentiousness of a child.

In a world that waits for no one,
where time is commodity,
where people come in and out and rush through life,
you stop
to look at the roses and the dew of dawn,
to take in the beauty of a fleeting moment
and the lingering effect it has on you
and me.

I listen to your silence
but hear all your words.
Sometimes I wonder,
“Is this really what you’re feeling
or is this only what you want me to feel?”
But I am glad nevertheless
to feel anything from you at all.

I am hanging on a string.
Hanging on to a story that we’ve never written,
and a past that’s not mine to call.
Kneeling in a temple to an unknown you.
And the only thing that keeps me on my knees
is my faith
that you’re not alone,
that I’m not alone,
that we are alone.

I can scream out to you,
“¿No ves? ¡Soy el único para ti!
¿No entiendes? ¡Estábamos destinados a estar juntos!”
But my words are valorless in these times,
fodder to the cannons of enraptured declarations.
Hvordan kan jeg skille meg fra resten?
Hvordan kan jeg skylle meg fra resten?
You strange thing.