Hard feelings

Forgiveness, to forgive, to pardon, what does it mean?
That I don't think about it anymore? That something becomes less important? That it doesn't hurt anymore? That I give up my own perception and adopt yours?
I've met very few people who want to hurt and let down on purpose. Who deliberately wanted to make somebody suffer. It exits, I recognize that, but it's so rare. When we hurt each other, it is so much more likely, that in the moment, we no longer share the same perception. We look differently at the same situation. Which happens all the time, only this time some one is hurt. And from that very moment where I'm hurt it's up to me and only me to let go of it again. If somebody kills me it's my responsibility to raise from the dead. If I'm raped it's up to me to recapture my body. The rapist can not give it back to me. Believing he could is the same as giving up myself as an individual with a will of my own.
It just seems so ufair that no matter what you do to me it's all up to me to live with it.

What I don't want to think about

What if it was a choise between love and writing? What if all the fuss has been about not putting these words together and make a sentence out of them?

Naive

I heard the word Naive yesterday, like this: he is a little naive but he is doing very well. And I remembered the rage, the injury, the shame and the need for rehabilitation. I was young then and I wanted to feel that life was no bigger than me, that we were equal in some way. If someone called me naive it was like being told, that life was cheating on me, and I was just not smart enough to see it.
If somebody called me naive today, nobody does unfortunately but if it happened, I would blossom and be so proud. I would feel that I despite everything had kept a certain innocence towards life and with this innocence I'd walk through the days as a receptive human being. Of all the ways of being here, it beats most of them.

The books I brought

I look at the books I brought here, I look at the view, from where I sit at the terasse, I only have to move my eyes a little to switch between the books and the view. Both are points and places where my eyes can rest. I've often wondered why I chose those books and not some others. Most of them I've already read. Collected short stories by Hemingway, Disgrace by Coetzee, The unbereable lightness of being by Kundera, Myths by Johannes V. Jensen, A woman in Berlin by Anonyma, Duras, Hamsun, Blixen, Shakespeare, Roth, Foucault, Zürn, Rilke, Modesty Blaise and others. It's a long way from Denmark to the West Indies to bring books you already read. Sitting here in the windy dark I have no regrets. I realize I've made myself a view apart from the one over the bay full of masts with red lights in the top and that is what makes my home: a place to stay and a place to put my eyes and my mind without being cut off.

Russian Roulette

I stopped the car to let a frog pass.
It was not a big frog, but a small one, delicate, almost transparant, the lights of the car caught it.
"What was that?", my mother asked.
"A frog", I said. "Just a frog".
I could as well have killed it and I wouldn't have had any regrets. I probably wouldn't have noticed. Frogs are soft. How many ants do I kill a week, a year, since I had my driver's license? Never noticed. I seem to accept the fact that what I don't know of does not affect me as well as I accept that the big and strong rules over the little and weaker.
I didn't kill it. I stopped the car and let it pass. Because I saw it. I was aware of its existance, we shared a moment. I saw its long hind legs stretching and contracted again, its reaching out with the arms, the little pointed face, and then gone.
"It's very unpleasant, when you hit them", my mother remarked.
I dropped her off by the hotel and turned the car around, let it free-wheel down the hill. This time the movement came from the opposite side of the road, the frog had changed its mind, it wanted to go back where it came from. Once more I stopped the car and let it by, not sure at all which perspective should be taken, from how far or how close the frog and I should be looked at.

To turn a nose

Slowly, slowly we enter the new year, no rush, no worries, we move forward, waste an hour, expand another, it's all in front of us, no backs turned on us, when I look at you in profile? Your nose is a perfectly shaped sail going downwind.