I was going through old journals and I found this text, from 17th of May, 2002, London.
Thought it was funny.

Stuck in a sweaty tube. Imagine if we were to be stuck here forever. For all eternity we would sit and stare at each other. Days and nights would pass, but down here the flourescent light would give us an artificial light around the clock. The make up would vapour in the heat, the shirts would get wrinkly and the nails would grow so long they'd start to curl. The clean shaved men would involuntary grow beards and day out and day in we would sit, strangers, face to face.
No one would talk to anyone, most people would look up at the tube map to see how much was left of their journey. Out of habit. The cell phones doesn't work so out of pure annoyment the men in suits would shake their little technical toys, in hope of them letting out a beep or two. Little by little everybody would start to forget about the world outside. How does gasoline smell? What season was it? What is my brother's name? Do I have a brother?
Eventually we would fade away, pale and hollow, but firmly clutching our purses.

Thousand years later they would make an archeological expedition and dig up the train, filled with sitting, fully dressed skeletons.
They would ask themselves: "What actually happened here? Why did these people choose to sit still and await death, instead of fighting for their lives? Why didn't they break out?"

And nobody would be able to give a satisfying answer.

Feeling focused. Pushing the stress away by dealing with everything. Making lists, doing one thing at a time. I've had my share of councelling today and it did me good.

I tell myself that missing you is doing me good too, and I do miss you tonight. Wondering where you are right now, what you're thinking. Who you're with. I miss your presence, to be able to turn my head one inch and see you there. Lying on my bed, reading a book, biting your nails with a frown. Looking so intense, so alive.
You're so special. ("so fucking special... but I'm a creep..") ha ha

Listening to Swedish heroes like Cornelis, Hellman and Sundström. Fantasising about the future, how I would like it to be. Daring to think about all the "what ifs". I try not to take anything for granted, but what if?
What if we'll find ourselves one day, you and me, in a beautiful flat in central Copenhagen? The walls decorated with your exotic artefacts, the bookshelves heavy with my writing? I'd wake you up with breakfast in bed on Sunday mornings and we'd be one of those desired intellectual, beautiful and rich couple. With our best friends, our chosen family, just around the corner, and a life filled with travels, social adventures and most of all... love.
What if?
Tonight I dare to dream, tonight my hard edges are worn down. Keep me.

Everything is so calm out there now. The snow is falling down like a thick wet blanket, covering everything in silence. No people in the street, hardly any cars on the roads... The street lights are giving everything a warm orange glow.
I ran back home from the meeting at the club tonight. Snow was covering my clothes, my hair and my face, no one was around and I felt blissfully happy and had to run. So with my latest obsession "Make Me Bad" by Korn in my ears I ran for what felt like hours but probably only lasted twenty minutes. Felt like I was only person left in the world and somehow that made me strangely excited.

Now here I am, hours later, with candles lit in my window seal and the quiet storm raging outside. "Rage rage against the dying of the light." The snow gives light though. Everything ugly that autumn left behind is now covered in white untouched snow.
I'm listening to Sneaker Pimps and thinking about how everything is ever changing. How I'm never constant, never permanent. And how that worries me sometimes. But not here, not right now. Here and now everything feels strangely complete, apart from the lack of your presence. Deep down I'm a loner, I like being alone. But you're in me, it's like I carry your spirit with me wherever I go. So when you're not there, your spirit is quiet, watching me. Makes me lose my sence of direction, makes me feel a bit lost in my actions. I pick up my books and I leave them. I start eating and then throw it away. I make a list of things that need to be done and lose it. And my bed looks awfully big.

Reading your blog is bittersweet. The warmth of shared emotions fills my veines and the sadness in face of the gap between us givs me shivers. The vision of different universes is haunting me, both of us sitting on a planet, like Le Petit Prince, like royalties in our own kingdoms. You have your reality, I have mine. Shall they ever merge?

Michael Ljungberg, one of Sweden's most successful wrestlers and a popular character in Swedish media, commited suicide last night.

He was taken in for depression, something he'd been suffering from for quite some time. His father visited him earlier yesterday and said he thought he seemed a little bit better. That afternoon the hospital found him dead. He had just been made president for the Swedish wrestling association, and was recently engaged to his new girlfriend.
He became 34 years old.

My thoughts go out to his grieving family. May he rest in peace.

The first snow has arrived!
Wish you were here to watch it with me from my window.
I'd hold you in my arms and tell you everything I've told you so many times before.