The pure joy of randomness!

So, it’s late at night and I’ve just ended part one of an RP event (as a player, not the event master, mind you) because of bad internet connection on the European continent. On a hunch I log on another character of mine (different faction, very new, not done much RP with at all) to do a late night Flash Point (that’s like a dungeon, not a raid). Finding one I join a team with three others. At some point one of them left because we (all expect one was low level) wasn’t really up to the task because we didn’t have as good gear, skills etc. So, the high level person left. We found a replacement and got to the last boss fight. Failing that the replacement left followed shortly by one of the original team members. So, there I was, standing with one other, not ready to give up. So, we tried again, with companions this time (NPC’s that follows you around and helps you). We came really close to do it, too close not to be bitter. We made some adjustments and tried again. This time the focus was healing – stay alive and keep the team alive and we might just have a shot at this. Succeeding we went bananas – it was, as things go, an epic win. Then in the following cutscene (the last one) we were joined by two others. It could not have been a better timing – we had JUST cleared the boss and were wrapping things up after going 20-30 minutes waiting for other characters to join us! Finishing the Flash Point we exited with big smiles and laughter, explaining what was going on to the two confused newly arrivals. Then they left and it was just the same person and I again. Then we got to talking. And we really hit it off! I mean, you know you’ve got someone nice when you both find the non-existent (aka just created by title) song “Four People Shuttle Run”, then arriving at the conclusion that this is the first big hit of an Nar Shaddaa heavy metal Togruta-only band – you know, that ONE song all the fans yell and wants to hear when they’re touring and playing live. Seriously, I could not have asked for a more spark of joy! Then we talked about the game, RP and this person was truly excellent – a newcomer to the game, but far from inexperienced in the world of RPG. Then it got late and I had to (regrettably) log off. We said our goodbyes and hope to see you again – and I certainly wish so: why else would I friend list such an awesome individual?

If you love something, let it go.

Someone tried to explain Naruto to me. “There’s lots of epic battles, the hero always wins and everyone have very intricate backstories.” My brother added that it’s also very long and complex and that I should totally check it out if I had time to spare. To be honest, “samurai space fox with lightsabers” sounded much more fun. And the fact that nobody really knows what’s really going on. Uh, if you do happen to like enjoy it and actually know anything about it, then good for you. Me? Nope, not getting there. At all.

At the same time, “war” is now a standard form of time measurement. According to someone who tells me: “scars are magic”.

And now over to something completely different.

There is a disturbance in my routine. It comes from everywhere and within, all at once, all at the same time. It promises change, forcing the issue of adaptation upon me like a reluctant leader accepting the role thrusted upon one self. I’m not sure how to fight it. I’m not sure I should fight it. All I know is that when the cold comes I’ll freeze.

Today is a day. Like yesterday was a day. As well as the day before. And the day before that.

The list of days goes on. What about tomorrow, what kind of day will you make?

Being a butterfly isn’t the worst life one can have. Being a larva, waiting for the transformation to begin isn’t either, I guess. Being the little cocoon, the cordial recluse, spending the time dreaming in a state of limbo… Who knows what cocoons dreams in the lithe passing of time.

A creature, created, that is what I seek to become. Made by science and knowledge that exists in our time, putting limits to the test and faith. Yet what I am inside was always beautiful.
So are you.

The fastest way to travel is by candlelight. I find sleeping a close second.

So, there I was. Big city. Alone. Spent some time in the shower, missing my shampoo and backrub. After staying inside to unwind, I decided to go out. Or, the fantasy I kept playing in my mind made me seize the day. Tomorrow was going to be different. Today I was going to walk the streets I couldn’t recall the names of. It would be summer. And I’d not walk the streets with forgotten names alone. Having walked in the opposite direction of my walking dream I found the new place where I would be spending the evening along with one of the two communities I went to experience once again. Following that, I ordered a haircut at the usual place. The hairdresser was just as bad as I to pick a time and day for it. It’s always charming meeting other un-decisive.

Waking up still within my delightful fantasy, I thought at the day before, the day I was going to have today and the day in the future.

28. 42.

Numbers without a roof.

The dark room of the soul.

In the palace of minds.

Happy place.

Go to your happy place.

Title: The inability to read.

Title: the girl in the shadows.

The girl sat in the chair. She had a block of paper in her lap. In her hand was a pen. Next to the girl, there was a small table. On the other, side a lamp. A cell phone, lying on the table surface, played music. The girl touched her hair. Freshly cut. The girl had been to a hairdresser the very same day. The cell phone kept on playing music. The girl waited.

She sat in the chair, waiting. Waiting for what, you may ask. I don’t think she even knew herself. But she waited. Patiently.

There was a knock on the door. She didn’t open. She knew who was outside. And she wasn’t ready to face the past just yet. Nor the music, for that matter.

The cell phone played on. The girl kept on waiting.

…

She is loved.

She is, indeed, loved.

Indeed she is. Loved.

Much like the recipe for food

We look inside

What does not exists

On Tuesdays

Why do people have to be so very acceptable and understanding

Everything is made to be broken

Nothing lasts forever

The trick is to enjoy it

While you can

She knows

She is loved

As another one

Proclaims

Love and support

From all around

The midnight oil

Lit again

Without concern

For the future

The past is the

Past

And she knows

Happiness.

Because sometimes it comes in the form of pies. Sometimes it’s the early midmorning phone call. Sometimes it’s arriving before your coffee shop meeting. It’s all these things and more. And yet it always comes back to two people. One of them is mentioned. And one of them is not. One of them is an open secret. The other one is an actual secret. My secret. My own, little secret.

At some point I’ll have to go public. Right now I’m not quite there yet. But I’m getting there. In my own way. At my own speed. Naturally.

The girl though of many things and nothing. She thought on what she was doing. She thought on what she wasn’t doing. Darling Clementine. Buried alive.

In the darkness, you can hide.

In the darkness, there is light.

In the darkness, you can be clumsy without trying to cover it up.

My mind wanders. It’s been difficult to focus. I blame my feelings. Though, her description was all to accurate. I keep coming back to her. Not that I mind that much. I just hope it’s not TOO much.

My coffee shop date (not that kind of date) that I for the love of me cannot recall the call sign of (but that’s all right) and I spent six hours talking, sharing and in general having an excellent time together.

Party was nice. Just don’t like parties as much as I used to.

I’m getting old.

The return trip was dreadful. That’s basically my own fault, though: spending far too much time focusing on the one really bad thing that happened in an otherwise good and satisfying visit. Sometimes the human psyche isn’t worthy of deeper study. Sometimes emotions are hard enough.

In the second day of the second month in the second era... fire burns.

I went to bed with the lights flickering. The fireplace toyed with the room, creating wonderful life on the walls around. It was beautiful. I didn't want it to end. But I was tired and even skylights of orange and gold lowers one's eyelids at some point. The pen becomes heavy, the writing unreadable. And when you drift off.
Night time changes many things.

The snow is melting. Winter is ending.

Lumi isn’t, though.

My darning stands by me.

Such is the fate of the world these days.

I’m writing short stories. One involves waking up next to the Spirit of Justice. The other one I only have the beginning sentence ready. They’re very different stories. Don’t know how long those stories will be. Don’t know if I’ll post them here either. In any case, it’s good to be writing again, and not just for the sake of escape this time. Does feel good to say that.

I wouldn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Still bothers me. Still, as Pinkie can spot one crying on the inside… I wonder what she’d say about me if it came to that.

Sometimes tears can be sad. Sometimes tears can be of joy.

Everybody wants somebody to love. Nobody wants to be alone. Sometimes living with ourselves can be hard. People on the edge of the night, living in small houses, dropping bombs as they pass you by. In a perfectly natural and non-threatening manner, of course.

The movie adaptation of the guitar solo carries on into the raincoat down the trodden street, blocks on both sides of it, tall buildings where nobody lives and where every drape is pulled shut, no lights in the windows, no candles or soups, the hat blows in the wind with an old newspaper only to be illuminated in the flash of thunder. Lyrics unheard, lyrics unsung, heroes, thieves, vagabonds and villains, all gathering in a grand gesture unknown to the participants and the guest of honor who regretfully could not sign in the obituary, remaining under cover, under fire, under drops of sweets and crumbled pieces of festive outfits, all raining from the sky underground and as the green light begins shivering in the corner of the spiders domain we all know that it was not the butler who murdered the person in question. We are at a loss for ways to express ourselves in distant languages that travels in groups of tourists down the beaches to sit on the waterfront, alone and in small communities, the hoarse rust in a shirtless voice that drives, drives, drives you, pulls you, pushes your car and your lawn and moves over just to tell you that your eviction have been postponed indefinitely in honor of the service your grandchild preformed in the past – last Tuesday, to be exact –without the aid of the maker of a time traveling space machine in the mists of an acapella brochure. Advertising without the permit to sprout religious sentiment brings fines and mackerels to the table next to yours, sitting down at it you’ll be invited over no more by the lady in the red dress where the gun is unreal and the tournament packs a blast just to get you, soaring, soaring into the night sky and the astronomers wet blanket filled with gems, gold and illicit treasure maps covered in a bra three sizes too big for you to even consider to put on display. Sense and sensibility hides amongst the true devotees of the moons side that does not begin to describe what the cat drank for dinner last night in the cupboard with the calm, feminine voice of reason, nor do I assume that Shakespeare and Ibsen would get along with James Joyce in a white motor engine powered by hooded dogs on wheels of steel down the roads to Oxford and the diary makes out with the dictionary in an scrutinized effort to appear more intellectual and intelligent than your average tea pot filled with bisects and sugar canes – the cinnamon is on the side dish, thank you very much. The stream of consciousness isn’t new to us as a concept or idea, but to take that and run with it, run, run, deep into the woods where nobody can find you or ever hear you whisper in sharp, brutal gasps for air, clenching the object of your fraternization and fascination hard, hard in your hand so it slips past your finders in the blue and you watch the sun rise one last time as the squirrels chirps of monkey business in fine suits tailored with matching bow ties and bowler hats, making Disney twist and turn in the grave like an undead zombie craving grape juice from Klingon where the autocorrect WILL kill you if you do not shut up and sit down to enjoy the show, the view and life in general. Stop. Stop. The cat is on the loose and prey, pray, it does not matter for it will get you in the end with claws, stings, sharp objects and scissors that you do not run very fast with as the ring on your little finger begins calling for you and asks you to pick up a dozen breakfast breads of loaf to carry with you in your handbasket that you up to this point did not know you had strapped to the back of the jack in the box, locked away in the shiny room with walls of flowers that tasted so good. In a world inhabited by computers, dog tags and words misleading beans could bring you astray where the ash and trays rests in the silver mud, no knock, not knocked up, no doorbell on this side of eternity without blue aliens of only one sex who reproduces by stiff ones in the lips, upper lip, mind you, the lower one is for she who is not a vampire to bite with and you do not want to deprive her of that pleasure for that would be very rude and not very considerate of you at all. Bells. Bells. Bells toil. Bells call. The bell, the bell, the graveyard bell, the bell in the tower, the church bell, the bell of silver and gold, the chalice hanging upside down in the pantry hiding and playing seek me out for it is not what it appears to be and white socks tickled with blood runs in the family of shifters and sneakers, no mercy, no fight, no twopence or tuppence sliding down into your picked pockets of stolen goods – they took the pocket, after all – and now you are wondering why you have been able to block out so much of what you have read that you have no idea what the purpose of this exercise even was to begin with and the irony is not lost upon the wall you peak through to stare into the face of the one behind the fourth and the fight. 

Return.

For it is, in fact, a return. While I cannot predict how the future shall go I can say that I am glad to be back. As such the boat shall remain non-rocked. Much more can be said. I shall not speak of it here, for it is such a small thing that just as easily could have ended in withdraw.

Ah, while the great outdoors trouble us with rain the moon remains cloaked. The cold hilt of the blade speaks to me of frost and snow. It whispers. Snow. Snow. There is blood in it. There is life in blood. Blood in the snow, life in the snow. Snow is life.
Our ancestors may be forever taciturn. Yet it is we who shall listen.

Listen.
Listen.

Do you hear them calling from the soundtrack of your life?
Do the chirps of birds sing songs of glory?
Do they sing songs of the Great Tribble Hunt?

Do you hear me calling?
Listen.

Not everyone gets a second chance. Make the most of it.
And be happy you're not dealing with Doran Martell.

Listen.
Listen.

Thank you.

In the middle of Winter.

I went to bed with the lights flickering. The fireplace toyed with the room, creating wonderful life the walls around me. It was beautiful. I didn't want it to stop. But I was tired and even skylights of orange and gold lowers one's eyelids at some point. The pen becomes heavy, the writing unreadable.* And when you drift off.
Night time changes many things.

* I wrote this on paper to begin with. With a pen. With blue ink.

The day I found out what Lumi meant

Lumi is a word with many meanings.
Lumi is a concept.

What Lumi means to me is personal. Because where ever you go, always take the weather with you.

Like a snowier muffin the delight and warmth of the night shines bright under the full moon. The moon will always be there. So will Täysikuu.

I am Täysikuu.
I am Tuuli.
I am Kuu.
I am Rakastama. And I love Lumi.

Because sometimes the world feels like a better place, even over a prolonged period of time. Thank you for making it so.

Oh, in case you have no idea why I'm proclaiming my everlasting love for snow - my reasons are not yours to know. Just like the secrets of She Who Gives Name True Meaning they belong to the people affected and trusted with knowledge unlocked and private.

The moon is not lonely in the sky. Somewhere there is another one looking up at it, marveling in it's beauty. Just like you. Just like me.

Bless the larp crowd!

So, it’s a normal day, I’m logging on FB after being wake the night before morning broke. First thing in my feed is a member of the community coming out, officially, thanking friends, family and fellow larpers for all the shown support. I immediately went misty eyes as my chest filled with joy and pride. It was beautiful. He having found himself, being able to be public about it… The word is a joyful place and you can’t be me just as I cannot be who you are. What matters is that we live in a time and age where it is possible to be one self, not restricted to gender, identity, sexuality, political and/or religious views. In some places of the world. I guess we’ve still got a long way to go. But we’re getting there. Slowly, we’re getting there.

What matters is that there is some people in this world that makes it a better place. Thank you for existing.

In celebration of the dawn.

After work today, I left the little city and drove out to a nearby island the locals use for dog walking, running, skiing and whatnot. It had snowed heavily the day before, so there were not a lot of paths open to anyone – footsteps in the nature can only pack so much in a brief time. When I arrived the sun had not yet graced the sky, but was merely content with casting an orange glow at the end of the horizon. It was not yet morning. That’s night shift treasure for you.

I ventured into the woods where the trees stood tall and covered in white. The ground, likewise a blanket of powder outside the track, could be a canvas without paint. Every step I took made the snowy sound of cold – it was about minus 12 degree Celsius or so. Stepping into the dusky grove, I found myself transferred, not only to a winter wonderland outside time and space, but to a world of majestic Scandinavian middle age – my mind went to the Birkebeiners and their trek across the mountains. This was proof that real beauty still exists in the great outdoors if you know where to search for it.

As I trampled across ice and frost, the light became steady. Dawn was breaking. Little by little the treetops began glowing, little by little the sky became a continuously paler shade of blue, little by little the gold of the sunlight made the ocean into a creamy royal blue color – the lazy waves had no wind to back them up. It was as silent as silent can be when a Human stops to listen to the song of awakening birds in the forest.

I made the trip around the island. However, I was not yet ready to leave. Down to the banks of the sea, I journeyed to sit and look at the rising sun. I shared a cup of green tea with the morning, having barely missed the beginning of the magnificent happening. I sat there, almost as long as I had walked, to face the warm glow and embrace of the light. Still, all good things must come to an end. I got up, dusted the snow off my coat and began the road that would leave me back in front of a fireplace inside.

This story is true. If you do not believe me, here’s a picture to prove it, taken while seated at the sea in the winter sun. Well, prove it as much as it is your own opinion whether I took this particular picture or not. Perhaps I just like making up stories.

To lead the way Northward.

To be borne by one woman, any woman is a random chance. To be borne in a country, any county is the same random chance of where said woman was located at the time of your birth. Thus, your cultural heritage should matter less than what other factors shape you. I guess it depends if you’re proud of the piece of land where you originated from or not.

I’m not proud of being who I am as a person. I am, however, proud of my country. Such a romantic way of putting it, isn’t it? Well, I am. I’m part of watching the 1994 Olympic Games as be a member of the host nation - a fairly young one at the time, but still my point stands. I’m proud to have a monarchy in this time and age. I’m proud of the colors of my flag. I’m proud of applying citizenship to another country.

Even in a Grand Assembly, there’s differences of opinion. You’d count on it.

I’m a human being. Sure, we’ve got differences of opinion, race, sexuality and whatnot, but one thing binds us together: We’re from the same planet. Hopefully we’ll be able to have that in common during these talks, too.

Despite our brief existence we’ve come a long way. The road ahead? Longer, harder, way more than you’d initially thought would be possible. That’s the big adventure – you didn’t expect “true power” to actually be able to change the world. To change something for the better... to actually make a difference... that's part of the dream, isn't it?

Having a nation with lots of strong LGBT rights means one thing – others should have the same benefits. Knowing all too well that this sounds very much like religious argument I still stand behind the statement. Thus, I see it as part of what I am to do to provide others with such acceptance, smiles and humor as exists in one small part of a tiny country in the bright, big world.

One cannot have male births. Yet. One day we will. As a species.

But before that I’ll be nursing health.

Declarations of love, passions and such may seem inspirational to some. To me, it’s now about survival. Because things change. Roll with it or be crushed. A harsh reality, it's true. But the goal is to make the dream the reality and the reality a reflection of the dream.

Unquestionable resolve? Only in high definition. Or is it? I don't know, I don't care - what matters is this: Doing the better thing. Entire after-action reports could be contributed to the subject. I'm not going to add to that pile.

If you have inspiration, basically anything that makes you think "I can do this" then you're on the right track. I don't care about what you're drawing courage from. I don't need to know. I need to know that there's others out there fighting the good fight. Doesn't matter how.

One drunken whaler?

Early in the morning she rises to embrace us all.

Give peace the blessing of a musical retreat.

In the nights of the Three Winters.

You, the client, are seeking a solution to your predicament. However, there’s little choice in actual resolving it in a clean cut way without complications. Typical.

You are the player, immersing a fully-fledged storyline of intricate plots and hidden agendas of multiple NPC’s across an evolving sandbox world of random encounters. I only wished you’d brought some dry, clean socks to the party.

You stand at the precibus of an ocean, knees deep in sand, fighting the urge to pummel headfirst into the unknown wonders of your beloved’s skirt hemp and dark creature offspring. In the deep places of the world, love can grow strong on gems and gold.

It does not matter. Your every step have lead you to this direction. Your every move have been to create this particular moment. The rooks flies over your head, making you dizzy.

And you love it. Every moment, every lead, the wind, the dark reach out of the corner of your eye and the feeling of coming home. Finally, you’re where you belong: in the arms of someone you adore and treasure above the death of Lazarus.

Good night, my dears. May you sleep safe in the wonders of the world. In the back of your throat, deep beneath the subconscious mind and tricks of light there lives something inside you, hidden and tucked away, only to emerge at a time of need.

Good night, my dears. May the need never come to you in an ill thought manner of grey shadows, sticks or stones, running oils or boiling hatred.

Good night, my dears. May the shadow of the night bring you peace at last.