"We have a weight to carry
and a distance we must go.
We have a weight to carry,
a destination we can't know.
We have a weight to carry
and can put it down nowhere.
We are the weight we carry
from there to here to there."

-The book of Counted Sorrows

Once upon a time I thought I could make it. I thought I would do it, I would change everything, I would change the course of destiny, the way the universe was made. I thought I had the power, I felt like I had the power. I lied in bed at night, watcing the sky inside my head and I believed I could make it.
I was wrong, of course. There should be no need to tell that anymore. It is obvious.
There was hope, of course. Youth and hope. They walk hand in hand, it seems. I grew older, of course. And I grew wearier. And I grew up, like they say. Sometimes I think the act of growing up to be an act of growing out of dreams, out of hope, out of everything that makes our life worthwile.

Tomorrow I'll be on my way to Stockholm and I know I want to jump, some time along that way. Because what I say is gibberish to me, gibberish to everyone. Because the words never matter as much as I hope they would.
And I don't know how I'll bear it. Because there really is no good reason to come back. I could dissappear. I could jump and no one would ever know where I had gone. Perhaps they'd make guesses, but they would never really know. It happens sometimes. Ships are easy places to disappear in.

I always thought I'd kill myself at the time of the full moon. I've always been comforted by the moon. It's so pale, so far away, so tender, even. It doesn't hurt my eyes, nor my skin. And it's always there. And it has always kept me awake. And it's beautiful.
Moon is supposed to be yin, the symbol of feminine, of death, of the shadowy part of this world. The mystical element, moonlight.
I don't like the English word for moon, it's too yellow and full. It's almost sticky. It has too many empty O's in it. They look cracked and patched and dirty. It's almost the shade of mold and I don't like it very much.
The Finnish world is too yellow. 'La lune' is probably my favourite of all the words for moon in the languages I speak. It's slender and fragile somehow, and it doesn't look that dirty-coloured.
Ah, I forgot. This is only my insanity. Although it isn't supposed to be insanity. It's normal, they say. Rare, but normal. I guess that's as good as it can get.

I don't remember who it was who yelled that no one is special. That there's always a million people better than s/he was and is ever going to be. So s/he wasn't special, wasn't valuable, was never going to be.
Me, of course, but there was someone else too. Someone who spoke about it recently. And perhaps s/he believed just that what s/he said. I know I did, in my time.

I have no urge to save the world anymore. I have no urge to change anyone's life. I don't want to. The task is possible, yes. We can all do that if we wish. But it requires more than I'm willing to give anymore. It requires my soul and I want to keep it to myself now. And perhaps I'm more selfish because of that. I know that I would think so, were I still thirteen. But I'm not anymore.
I don't know what I am anymore. I'm no more an adult than I was before.
I might be colder.
I might be... more real. Or I might be nothing different because the hatred is still there. So many things are still there. I don't know if I want them to go away anymore. My hatred comforts me. My sorrow comforts me. I know my hurt, I know the pain. I'm not sure if I could learn to live without it anymore.

But that's the question. Do I need to live anymore? Do I want to?
"To be, or not to be." I never read Hamlet, I don't know what he decided. If he decided.

Of course there are things to worry about. Of course I don't know if I'll be back. It'd be usual if I came back. But everything doesn't always go as usual. Most things do, but not everything.