Det blåser på månen.

When I was younger, and visited my cousins in the country, there was this one place along the road that always conjured the same image in my mind. It didn't matter what kind of mood I was in, or what weather it was, whether it was cloudy, or bright sun; bare and grey or green and flourishing. This feeling would come over me and that place shifted and grew dark and stormy and the sky started to rumble with lightning. And out there among the trees I saw two figures. One was laying on the ground, weak and pitiful; and the other was leaning over her, huge and omnious and with torn filthy clothes. There was something unworldly about him, and the vile and unruly storm somehow seamed to be the cause of his presence. Every time I passed this place this was what I saw, and that was something I always looked forward to. Because, somehow, it seamed so real. Like I was watching something that had, or someday would, actually happen.       I don't know why I chose to...

"How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because if one didn't, the wolves and blizzards would be at one's throat all the sooner." ~ David Mitchell, Letters from Zedelghem, Cloud Atlas

Invid en ödslig väg mitt ute i skogen sitter en liten enslig varelse på en sten och spejar med vaksamma ögon ut i den svarta natten. Den kalla luften är tung av doften från våt jord och barr. Varelsen håller utkik efter billyktor, eftersom med varje bil som passerar på vägen kommer också en människa, och med varje människa följer en historia. Och varje människoöde är det andra lika olikt som det är fängslande.      Varelsen ger ifrån sig ett frustrerat jämmer då vägen fortsätter att ligga lika olidligt stilla. En fågel fladdrar förskräckt till ovanför och faller till marken med fruset hjärta, men varelsen ägnar den inte ens en föraktfull blick utan fortsätter spana ut i mörkret på jakt efter sina äventyr.      Plötsligt klyvs den stilla natten av att ett ljus faller på den öde vägen. Varelsen hoppar ner bakom stenen just som ett par strålkastare rundar krönet och får träden att kasta djupa skuggor över marken. Luften börjar vibrera av känslor och vare...

"Love" Noimp said, staring blankly out over the lake. "What do you think that is Luna? All those stories.." He trailed off. Then he took a deep breath and looked at Luna. It had shivered, she thought. His breath had shivered. "That's just it. There´s so many stories. Every where I look, every person I meet have some kind of story to tell. But how much of that is really true, huh? How much of what you hear and see is not just dreams and fables. Stories, made to look real." He drew a hand through his hair and left it hanging from his neck. He shook his head. Like he was trying to shake it all off and said quietly "They're just.. coated in small truths to make the big lie more plausible." Luna sat staring at him. She didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to say. He, who was always so composed. Always so coldly calculating and taking control of every situation. Where did all this come from? "And the bad ones?" She new ...

"Fantasy is a natural human activity. It certainly does not destroy or even insult reason; and it does not either blunt the appetite for, nor obscure the perception of, scientific verity. On the contrary, the keener and the clearer is the reason, the better fantasy will it make." Quote by J.R.R. Tolkien, Read in the foreword for James Gurney's book Dinotopia.

I haven't been writing here for a while now, because though so much has been happening in my life lately I'm finding it hard to find anything I want to write about. It's not that the things I'm experiencing aren't inspiring and good, but frankly sometimes they're hard to take in, and I'm finding that I'm starting to crave for stories because I'm finding it difficult to write my own. And yet every time I find one that offers me something to hold on to, something else makes it aversing and forces me to turn to the next thing. I know that at some point we all have to end up here, at that time in the story where you have everything but you can't make out what to do with it so you're forced to watch it crumble beneath your hands, to see it through until the next chapter or the next line that enables you to get a firmer grip again. I don't want to read the story ahead to see when things will be starting to turn around, but it's hard to watc...

"Look at the sky. It's not dark and black and without character... the black is, in fact, deep blue. And over there: lighter blue, and blowing through the blues and blackness the winds swirling through the air and then shining, burning, bursting through: the stars! And you see how they roar their light. Everywhere we look, the complex magic of nature blazes before our eyes." Vincent Van Gogh 'Doctor Who'