A while ago I wanted to write. I wanted to get published, I wanted to get recognized.
Not for fame or fortune, simply for survival of my ego and the continued existence of my life. So I went to Hungary, inspired by a friend, and a TED-talk. I toured Budapest, and lived with a Hungarian family. I walked the streets, I went to the festivals, and I saw the bands. I even drank the absinth. But nothing inspired me to write about anything more than my failures. So I went to Barcelona, inspired by the price of the flight. And once again I would move around, I drank the wine, I wandered the alleys, and I observed the beaches. And I decided to go to tangier, Africa. Another country, another continent, and another life would probably make me produce again. But alas, no. I Listened to their music, I followed their traditions, I watched them live, but no. I did not produce, and even if that trip led to getting in contact with somebody in power, somebody whom could get me into the world which I dreamed of. So after a short trip back to Sweden, a meting with a “big-wig” in media, I returned to Africa, to Dakar, Senegal, and tried to write. I got an apartment, got integrated into the city, and lived its life. But still I could not produce. Now I feel like a load has been lifted off my chest, like I have actually made progress. Because I know. I know that I am not in the place where I can write what I need to fulfill the want stated in the beginning of this eulogy to a dream. I simply do not have the capacity or experience. At least not now. And that is my reason for giving up.
Posted on Thursday, 27 November 2008
