I’m telling stories all the time, mostly in the evening before I get asleep. And maybe after that, I don’t remember. A permanent blogger. And the most interesting, most precious things remain untold. And unwritten. I have no keyboard around me to write them down. Even if a reach out for one, it all changes a bit, somehow it adapts to go out and imprint itself on the screen. Dreams have to be killed a bit to be written down. In the museum of natural science there is a whole floor with nailed butterflies, beetles and all kinds of bugs. Just a pin through the body and it stays there nailed on for years. Under a glass, with a sidelong description and appointed cleaners to dust around. Writing always changes the world. One who doesn’t notice it is insensible, one who always looks with regret on that turning of thoughts to words is a driveller. So we’re looking for the golden mean, but is there one?

If I could just write my daydreams in raw format… Remember Dr. Aki Ross from “Final Fantasy”? She wrote down her dreams. I’m thinking of something much simpler, about “day”-dreams. And when I’m outside walking or travelling I’m thinking music. I cannot play this music later, because it always turns out to be something diferent and the very act of playing somehow pulls me out to somewhere else. Pins again — and under the glass. And there is no way to write that too, it has to suffer with it’s transition to played music. To get born in pains and become something else. Sure, these happen to be nice songs sometimes. And some of the texts are nice too. But it’s not the same…

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