Every night I go to bed, filled with the tiniest bit of hope of everything that could be. Every morning I face the reality of all that simply cannot be.

Comparing hands: one palm against another fremmed one. Marveling over how right it seemed to be, that they would be the same size, that they would lace so well. Our pinkies topple and fall, og det går uten objection. Our ring fingers follow i stillhet, skjer det virkelig? Another one, and I could only imagine the look in your eyes as our hands make a funny gun shape. L’indice après, but we are only in prayer for a second as your thumb moves in front of mine.

Jeg vil kjenner det. Livet er ikke verdt å leve uten kjærlighet.

Dans ces blissfully isolated interactions med ham, jeg glemte for øyeblikket världen omkring oss. And I was painfully reminded of it when I saw him lay eyes on her. Er mine fantasier så fragile that they cannot withstand uno sguardo?

For lenge, faktisk.

Jeg klarer ikke å sum up disse siste tre ukene. The days pass by too fast, and I find myself uten motivation, og uten tiden for å skrive alt ned.

But since I’m still fresh and brisen from Club 1, I feel obligated to share a bit of what’s on my mind.

You ever think mennesker were put her på jordet bare for å underholde Gud? At livet mitt hakke no betydning, og at Han nyter å se på me make a fool of mæsjølv. That it’s funny to see me tumble on my face.

Eller er det meg? Forventer jeg for mye? Får æ ikke lov å ha slike forventninger? Hvorfor finnes det ingen per me?
Det gjør meg svak. Needy. Et chaque fois qu’un garçon est vennlig mot meg, je tombe. Voglio vivere l’amore, voglio sentire, jeg vil elske og være elsket. Jeg trenger å kjenne kärlek.

Non è giusto at noen finner kjærlighet overalt og jeg souffre under deres røyk. Faen, for en drit verden å leve i uten kjærlighet.

Spiste middag med Ou ikveld og det var veldig hyggelig. Begge av oss hadde masse å prate om, og det trøster meg å vite at vi er fremdeles gode venner. Jeg fortalte henne av mine skuffelser: at jeg har forventet så mye mer enn hva blei av denne sommeren. Vi har også snakka mye om ham, kärleken min, og største skuffelsen min. 最近我为他上了很大的火，但是除了 Francesco 以外，谁都每有告诉。Og det er ikke ofte at jeg få snakke med Francesco, så å kunne endelig fortelle noen andre om det var en stor…lettelse. Og hun sa til meg akkurat det samme: at jeg må komme over ham.

Det kommer ikke til å være lett, det skjønner jeg godt. Men det første–og viktigeste–trinnet er å innrømme at jeg har en problem og må vel løyse den: 我必须放开他。

Det spiller ingen rolle hvor perfekt han ser ut. Sjølv om jeg synes at han var ment for meg er det bare et ensidig forhold. Og sjølv om jeg ikke tror at det finnes andre fisker i sjøen kommer jeg til å innse at de har rett. Jeg er ferdig med å kaste bort så mye tid på grunn av ham når jeg ikke veit i det hele tatt hva han virkelig synes om meg eller om han var även ærlig med meg å begynne med. Det finnes for mye av hans tilstedeværelse i mitt liv, og jeg har blitt så vant til å tenke og drømme om han at det ikke er sunnt lenger: og hvordan skjedde alle dette? Tre samtaler og en fantasi date at jeg ikke kan tro på. Så nå slutter jeg med denne besettelsen. Dessuten er han sikkert lei av alle mine innsats i å få hans oppmerksomhet.

S’il a envie de parler à moi, il le fera naturellement. Et sinon, alors, c’est tout, ça…

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

Noen ganger på midten av natta sitter jeg her og tenker at jeg er fremdeles forelska i deg. Du har en krav over meg som jeg ikke kan forstå. Ingen–ingen–kunne gjøre meg til å føle som du gjør: både ekstatisk og ulykkelig.

Jeg føler meg flau–Å tenke slik, å tenke så mye om deg når du ikke bryr om meg i det hele tatt. For hvis jeg hadde krysset hodet ditt ville du ha vært ærlig med meg. Hvis du hadde tenkt på meg, hvis bare litt, hvis du hadde vurdert følelsene mine da ville du ikke ha løyet. Du ville ha fortalt meg sannheten og du ville ha skadet meg for å beskytte meg.

Jeg vil høre no annent enn din stillhet! Si til meg alle dine stygge ord, i det minste skal de fyller opp dette romet med no rørende: jeg vil hate deg, jeg vil glemme deg og kaste deg ut av mitt liv. Men med den måten du forlatt meg skal jeg aldri være sikker, og jeg klarer ikke å finne det inni meg til å føle no annent enn blindt forelska, håpløs, og såra. Jeg klarer ikke å gjøre no annent enn å vente på deg å komme rundt og tilgi deg. Lille dumme meg.

So many thoughts and emotions.

Removing the pin from Katherine’s letter on my wall.

A sudden urge to take a bus ride to Andebu. Pour voir, pour voir comment il vivait. Pour regarder les mêmes bâtiments que, peut-être, il regardait, et marcher parmi les mêmes rues qu’il marchait.

Packing. This shirt doesn’t smell like me. Perhaps some lingering scent from a previous rendezvous. Un uomo norvegese…o forse tedesco.

Lying on the living room couch, room dimly lit by a singular lamp. A comforting orange cast on the ceiling. Tori Amos’ Gold Dust playing; I’ve been here so many times before. The familiarity of it all: the fireplace, the cognac on the glass table, the flickering eyes and that emerging, probing question of whether or not you’re falling in love then and there. E poi, that moment of closing in, brushing lips, moist and tender. It’s a different setting, but the same warmth, the same feeling. And it feels so real. I think I could love him, but that would be stupid.

“Det ordner seg for snille gutter.” Det må.

L’autre, il n’avait que vingt ans quand ils se sont rencontrés. And everything after that fell into place accordingly: even the drama seems to have written itself out a painful yet perfect addendum to their story. Jeg skal fylle det samme nummeret neste år. But will I be so lucky? So fortunate? Blessed? To think, that I could meet “The One” next year—but alas, non sarà lui! (You can’t blame me for thinking. Vi kan ikke være forelska av noen som vi aldri har møtt. Vi kan bare trekke fra våre erfaringer og skape forventninger derfra.) Allora, a guy can hope.

Tengo tanto amor que dar, ¿pero cuando él me va a encontrar?

Io sono qui, staring at a glowing rectangular box. And every time I look at the trees outside my window they seem to be merging together…but they never do. And as much as I crave our union, any union, it’s only an illusion.

Kunne. Det kunne vært annerledes. In another world, another lifetime, kunne han vært min?

I was reading a piece by Alice Munro for my Internasjonal Engelsk class when I came upon this passage. God, she puts it more eloquently than I ever could.

That night was the beginning of months of real, if more or less self-inflicted, misery for me. Why is it a temptation to refer to this sort of thing lightly, with irony, with amazement even, at finding oneself involved with such preposterous motions in the past? That is what we are apt to do, speaking of love; with adolescent love, of course, it’s practically obligatory; you would think we sat around, dull afternoons, amusing ourselves with these tidbit recollections of pain. But it really doesn’t make me feel very gay — worse still, it doesn’t really surprise me — to remember all the stupid, sad, half-ashamed things I did, that people in love always do. I hung around the places where he might be seen, and then pretended not to see him; I made absurdly roundabout approaches, in conversation, to the bitter pleasure of casually mentioning his name. I daydreamed endlessly; in fact if you want to put it mathematically, I spent perhaps ten times as many hours thinking about Martin Collingwood — yes, pining and weeping for him — as I ever spent with him; the idea of him dominated my mind relentlessly and, after a while, against my will. For if at first I had dramatized my feelings, the time came when I would have been glad to escape them; my well-worn daydreams had become depressing and not even temporarily consoling….

It’s fiction, but it has all been lived before. There should be a club for people like us. Or a Facebook group.

I have big intentions. Huge plans and goals. I just can’t conceive them. I’ve always been in awe of songwriters; they make the process of creating a song seem so effortless. I want to do that. I want to carve out the intangible, capture and preserve a feeling, a moment, an emotion, and then pass it on to others. There exists nothing more satisfying.

But tonight, I’ll relegate myself to sharing other people’s songs, so unwax those ears.

1. Super Junior 너라고 (It’s You)

2. Kelly Clarkson Don’t Let Me Stop You

3. Nek ft. Laura Pausini Sei Solo Tu

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of Nek, e non solo perché è gnocco. His music and lyrics are filled to the brim with emotion and intensity; they stir up feelings of boundlessness and nostalgia, and remind us of the fragility of being human. Mi sento il vivo quando ascolto lui.
Perché mi piaci in ogni modo,
Why do I like you in every way,
da ogni lato o prospettiva, tu?…
From every side and perspective, you?…
E poi sai fare morire un uomo
And you know how to make a man die
con l’innocenza del pudore che non hai…
with the innocent modesty that you don’t possess…
Perché sei bella che mi fai male…
Because you are beautiful that it hurts me…
Sei solo tu nei giorni miei…
There is only you in my days…
Sei solo tu e dimmi che
There is only you, and tell me that
sono questo ora anch’io per te…
I am also the same to you…

4. Cajsa Stina Åkerström Långt Härifrån

5. Keith Urban Til Summer Comes Around

And I saved the best for last. God, this song is everything I feel right now: deserted, wishing on something that doesn’t exist yet still persistant and keeping that flickering hope alive. And the guitar riff makes me speechless. This isn’t a song to listen to, this is a song to live.

I think all the songs here on this collection reflect a fragment of my mindset right now. They sing what I couldn’t dare say.

Encore une fois, I feel stupid. Encore une fois, I was tricked by my own feeling of self-importance. And the only person to really fall for it was me–a victim to my own fantasies, desires, and expectations.

Je crois toujours en l’amour vrai, mais pas cette fois. Pas maintenant. Je vais retourner à San Francisco.