On taking a break from life and being still being torn

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Sometimes you have to travel far in order to get home.
At least that's what I've been told.
And I have travelled, perhaps not in the vagabond-asia-backpacking sense, but in my own way. And I'm still not entirely sure of where I'm meant to wind up. As always I'm torn between two countries, several cities and loads of people.
Is this a bad thing? I'm not sure, because it all stems from a lot of love. Love for different cities and love for several friends and family members. I had the privilige of a safe haven to return to, and I had reached a point in my life when I could forgive, forget, move on and learn to love my home town and home country for what it is, rather than to despise it for what it used to represent to me.
I'm happy for that chance. I'm happy for the bike rides, the beer fuelled walks through Gothenburg, the nights out in Stockholm, the cups of coffee in Copenhagen.
The salt water, the sea air, the friends who knew me then and still want to know me now. The family members who are my solid ground and my reason for being.


I took a break from life.
But now I'm starting to feel like it's time to get back into the game, I'm starting to feel like this game I've been playing (the long haul kind) isn't satisfying enough for my impatient soul. There's a weird energy, maybe it's spring, sunshine or my normal fight or flee instinct kicking in, but something is a'brewing.

Life, boiled down to the content of my handbag

Continuing on the theme of the previous post I actually do think that you can say a lot about a person based on the content of their handbag. I Show me your handbag and I'll show you your life!
My handbag, this very day, contains:

• My yellow purse, which is falling apart but I'm reluctant to part with.
• 3 pens (blue and black ink).
• One handheld mirror.
• One tiny hairbrush.
• One set of yellow post-it notes.
• Some paperclips.
• Some change.
• 2 shades of red lipstick.
• Some clear lipgloss.
• Some lipbalm.
• Liquid eyeliner.
• Scented wet wipes.
• A lighter.
• Gloves.
• Keys to my house, my bike and work.
• A memory stick.
• A note pad for everything that I could possibly need to write down.
• Iron supplements. I don't normally take them but as I donated blood last week the nurses seem to think it's a good idea to keep my iron-levels up. All I can think is that if Magneto from the X-Men attacked me I'd be royally fucked.

I say, it's the fire in my eyes, and the flash of my teeth, the swing in my waist, and the joy in my feet.

Thesadbox pondered on how a persons scarf might say something about them. The smell, the fabric, the colours and the pattern. I suppose that if you wear something daily it might take on a part of your personality, and in northern Europe we currently do not leave the house without at least ONE scarf. It's still snowing and spring does seem very far away.

I don't know if my scarf says anything about me. It's soft and worn, a bit torn by the edges but you won't notice unless you look at it up close. It's colourful and smells like a mixture of my skin, my hallway and Chanel perfume. It's probably been washed once of twice since I got it and it's been with me through winter, spring, summer and autumn.
In a way I guess I use it as a safety blanket, or a shield against the world. It's big enough to use as an actual blanket if called for and I have fallen asleep underneath it.

After 4 years of university and reading meaning after meaning into other peoples words I think I could write an essay about my scarf as a reflection of me. But I won't. Because today I will mainly learn about EU-projects on a regional level and that leaves very little space for other thoughts. So I will leave you at that and attempt not to get sucked into further procrastination.