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Som noen av dere veit har jeg endelig fått ADHD-diagnosen, og er medisinert as we speak. Jeg har snakka lenge om ADHD og de tingene jeg har lært rundt det (mest på Insta), og det fine er, at utrolig mange folk - både kjente og ukjente - har tatt kontakt for å snakke om sine egne tanker og opplevelser rundt saken.
I den anledning bestemte jeg meg for å opprette en egen blogg om ADHD/mental helse, livsreisa og endringene jeg er inne i nå (og såklart må jeg snike inn litt som skriving, hallo) her: Sylvilel På Villspor
Which brings us to the next news: Skriving går ufattelig bra for tida; jeg jobber med to egne romanprosjekter (det ene går mer framover enn det andre...), samt fungerer som hjelperedaktør på antologien som mitt kjære Vesterålen Litteraturlag skal gi ut til jul.
I tillegg har jeg fått forespørsel om å være (betalt) manuskonsulent for en venn uvisst når, og har sagt meg veldig interessert i dét, så her skjer det ting.
Derfor blir det sånn heretter, at denne bloggen kommer til å fungere primært til det den egentlig var tenkt: Nemlig å dele tekster og kreative greier.
Så her kommer det endelig noe kreativt: En tekst jeg skreiv for noen uker siden, da jeg fortvilt prøvde å komme i kontakt med kreativitets-flowen min igjen, men ikke klarte det før jeg slutta å tenke så hardt:
The Woods
I see trees. Big old, craggy, gnarled trees, covered in vines and moss; close together in silence, a massive, compact, and eerie darkness gathering between them. The darkness feels alive, like it’s watching you if you venture between he trees. It feels like a cold, clammy, but prickly sensation on your skin, in your nerves; and the sense of being watched wherever you turn is palpable.
You can tell that there is something waiting further inside the dark; you can feel it in your whole body.
The smell of the forest is pleasant, mind; sweet, tantalizing, soothing - it calms your nerves and makes your mind wander, lulling you into a dreamy state where you feel more at peace than you have done in ages; but it lingers still, that sense of being seen - only it doesn’t feel so important anymore. Maybe it was even just a trick of the mind - maybe it was just your overwrought nerves that made you be so alert and on guard.
You wander between the trees, stroking your hands affectionately across the trunks; feeling the gnarl, the age, the grumpiness of these old, majestic growths. They feel like part of you, you realize; like a forgotten memory of a family you once knew, and still can only barely remember - a sense of familiarity that has turned to estrange. It makes you long; it makes you a little sad; you want to be part of this family, this piece of you that you didn’t know existed; but you know that the moment has passed; the chance has come and gone. And you were left behind.
It makes you feel desperate; depressed; lost. For what are you really, without this place to belong? The trees can feel your presence; you can feel that they feel - but they feel closed to you as well, like they are reluctantly turning their backs on you.
You find yourself wanting to beg; «let me in, I am here!» But to no avail, and you know it even before you try; these woods are not your family anymore - you are now the anomaly, and you all are aware of it.
So you wander further within. You are already lost; what else is there to lose? You might as well go deeper; perhaps there will be salvation waiting for you at the end; or perhaps, at least, there will be a sense of closure; maybe even peace. Perhaps you will be lost to yourself and the world forever.
But at this point you no longer care.
Never have you felt more alone. And the smell of the leaves, moss and vines still soothe you. There is no reason to leave. You have nowhere to go. You have no one to turn to. The woods it is; will or won’t.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
You disappear between the trees.
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