Beslut.

Han älskar henne. Han älskar henne och däri ligger problemet för hade han inte älskat henne hade det aldrig uppenbarat sig ett problem. Med lätthet hade han fortsatt med sitt liv, skaffat en man, barn, älskat; han hade levt, om inte lycklig så i alla fall glad, tills han dog och föll till marken. Nu känns det tungt. Smärtsamt. Han borde inte vara där, de borde inte vara tillsammans och de borde inte älska varandra. Han blundar och lutar huvudet mot den tjocka dörren som ingen någonsin lyckats bryta sig igenom, förstöra. Nu är den låst. Hon är bakom den, hon, och han kan nästan intala sig själv att han kan känna henne genom träet, stålet och betongen. Metallen, det yttersta lagret, prisat för sin motståndskraft, känns kall mot hans panna. Han undrar om hon gjort samma sak, om hon gör samma sak precis just nu, om en mystisk obändlig kraft får henne att luta huvudet mot dörren, metallen, och förstå att det är just han som står där utanför.

Han plockar fram nyckeln, nyckeln som sitter fast i hans bälte, i hans och ingen annans. Han håller i den, väger den i handen, känner tyngden från det vackra och komplicerade bronsföremålet. Han tittar på det. Håller i det. I glansen speglas hennes frihet och det gör ont.

Under en liten stund undrar han om han gör det rätta. Gör han det? Ska han ändra sig? Förändra kvinnans där inne öde? Förhindra eller förorsaka hennes död. Kanske ska han det. Kanske ändrar han sig just precis nu till kvinnans favör, kanske får han precis just nu en uppenbarelse som kommer att för alltid förändra världen. Han älskat ju henne. Ska inte kärleken överträffa allt? Jo. Det borde den. Och han ler. Under ett ögonblick ler han vilt och han känner sig lycklig och glad och ja, ja, det här känns rätt; det här är rätt beslut. Det känns bra, det känns rätt, han känner det inombords. Han fumlar lite med nyckeln, ivrig och för första gången en aning oskyldig, en aning lycklig. Och så går nyckeln i låset, för den passar perfekt, och han vrider om den med ett gnissel och allt känns bra, allt är lugnt. Rätt. Dörren skjuts upp och han kisar med ögonen för att kunna se genom mörkret. I vilket hörn av rummet sitter hon? Han tar ett steg in, höjer facklan. Säger:
”Coldra?”
Tystnad.
”Coldra?”
Hon är inte där. Hon är borta.
Cellen är tom.

tjugonionde januari tvåtusenelva.

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100.

100.

There is a pager signal going of. Beep. Beep. The scuffle of plastic soled against a plastic floor and muffled talking. Through an open door the air carries hysterical laughter. Someone, a swish of blue scrubs and a white coat, walks by while she sits with her head bent down, blindly staring at her hands. 72, 73, 74, 75, she counts and she tells herself that by the time she has reached one hundred she'll be here. She'll be here. But when the woman she's waiting fore isn't there at one hundred she pulls out her phone and taps it twice, no missed calls, no new texts, so she starts over counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. She goes slowly so that she can properly taste each number, associating them all to tastes sha has tasted and eaten. 5 is Granny Smiths. 11 is Mac'N'Cheese. 41 tastes like fresh, pink salmon and 42 is everything while 43 is suspiciously alike to pineapple pie. When she reaches one hundred she'll be here, she figures. Only to one hundred. She can do that. She'll be here then. When one hundred is here and she has yet to appear, she checks her mobile phone with two taps but there are no missed calls, no unread texts, so she counts again, starting at one. When she reaches one hundred, she thinks, she'll be here. She'll have had time to get here when she's counted to one hundred. So she counts slowly, very slowly, associating each number to a colour she has seen before. 6 is a bright, apple-y green. 37 is an icky brown and 42 is everything and 97 is that gorgeous blue that the ocean looks like when the sky is bright and happy. 98 is burgundy, 99 i saffron, black is... 100. One hundred and two taps on a mobile phone without missed calls or unread texts. So instead she counts to one hundred from one because when she reaches one hundred she'll be here. She must be. Closing her eye,s she must be.So she counts carefully, associating each number to a person she has met before. 12 is grandma. 24 is the man on the bus andd 42 is everyone and she does this without associating either number to the one who's yet to come or the one who's already there. The one she's there because of. Scuffling sneakers wearing people in scrubs. At one hundred she'll be there. At one hundred. She must.And 98 is the president and 99 an obscure rude relative and at 100 she'll be here, at 100 she'll be here, she has to be, she must, 100, 100, soon she'll be here, 100, 1 left, only one, 100 is her neighbour with the huge barking dog. One hundred. She looks up. There is no one there.

Momentarily she is stunned by defeat. 100, her mind whispers, 100, and in her head she randomly thinks of the yet to have been counted Doctor, Dr Elcarim, and as she thinks of Elcaring in blue scrums and scuffling shes a door opens and there she is. Dark, dark hair in a scruffy ponytail, tight jeans, tiny t-shirt and enormous sweater. There she is and she sprints down the hallway and takes the sitting woman in her arms and she buries her head in the crook of the black-haired woman's neck. It is safe and it is comforting and despite all that is around them it is home. Almost can she forget what has happened, what might, the counting to keep her mind sane. The counting.
The counting.
She grins; whispers:
”One hundred and one.”


tjugofemte januari tvåtusenelva
En dator dog så det tog lite exta tid.

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"Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future; concentrate the mind on the present moment."

Buddha



Ett ögonblick.

It dawned on her and her entire world changed. Just like that. During one moment. That's all it takes. And moments - they're all we've got.

Here is a collection of moments. They are moments in which decisions are made, life-changing things happens, moments in which people finally stand up for what they believe in; fragments of lives bound in a single moment during which people shrink back in fear and terror. In some moments nothing at all happens.

Here they are. Moments of the World.

Citat.

All men dream; but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recess of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act out their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.
T.E. Lawrence

I am Me.

18 years of age and expected to have a whole life planned, expected to know and to want. I don’t want much else than being happy, but people don’t like when you answer questions like that. It makes me a bit sad but there’s no need to worry: slowly, I’m changing the world.