Moving

Moving

What kind of travelling is worthwhile? Is that the right question? How to travel and where to go?

This is a journey, this is a journey, this is a journey, this is a journey, this is a journey, this is a journey, this is a journey, this is a journey. When this is not a journey, journey is a cliché. I’m not moving much, but I am making progress. The desire has left me to physically travel. Do we look for an end or a new beginning on our way and how to make progress? Do we choose a new way or the same way over and over again? When I repeat this small, many times used sentence, this is a journey, I get a grasp of what this voyage, we are trying to do, is. We need to have a destination and repetition, a pattern to repeat. We need to know how to get there while we are going. What is there, that there is something for us, that we are safe. We are not doing our journeys for nothing. It is about moving, making something worthwhile. Having been somewhere and returned. If we don’t move we are stuck, is the contemporary ideology.

Documentation of burn.

Burning sheets

The burning sheets, pink, naivety of a dreamcatcher on a concrete balcony, glass shades on the first floor. Disliked the kitsch and the thought of a horror b-movie in YouTube in ten parts.

Pleasing stuffing, filled but not full, exhausted, drained, sucked, emptied, done. Wanting to fill it, because of the lack of content and the feeling of fulfilment all the time that is compulsory. Drank in between the birches in cool calm despite the sign of a mall in bright. There and the dirty double-trailer truck on the side of the road, two words, a pulp factory, which has been closed for some time.

It is dark, drinking in the dark, the blue, yellow and red, drinking a wish and the thought of full, drinking the landscape, drinking the melancholy and the night, drinking the time, drinking the passing cars, drinking the dirty snow, drinking the shoes, drinking the hands. Not who drank but why. The problem is what you are. That is why.