Sylvilel

©️S.C. Nilsen Som vanlig, long time no see, men det har vært hardt vær her på nordsida av landet, og da mener jeg livsmessig: 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...

Another day altogether. The lawn had gone a fresh, newly-sprung green in the last two weeks. It was an odd kind of day. A hurtling-forwards-while-standing-still kind of day. A day of kind of belonging, but belonging a little on the side. She sighed as her fingers poured over the keyboard at a quiet pace. There were words today. Not plenty of words, but just enough, and just easily enough placed at the almost-front of her mind, so she didn’t have to reach too far, or pull too hard to grab them. But she was in an odd kind of mood, and it put her concentration at a slant, just a little. In her minds eye, mountains rose in purple-blue fog and called for weather dragons, who circled the mountains lazily, partly sheltered by the fog. Fire spirits and water nymphs darted on the hurtling updrafts. But behind her inner vision, a little behind her eyes, towards the back of her head, doubts and fears swirled in a lazy, leering circle. And an insistent throbbing on her left side temple kept knoc...

The fact is, I don’t know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn’t collapse when you beat your head against it. - Douglas Adams Her gaze dragged past the reflections in the window pane, and sloped in a zigzag across the greening lawn outside. It wasn’t an exploring kind of gaze; it was a reluctant but helpless kind of gaze, fighting not to be drawn towards whatever it was that it was drawn towards. Because let´s face it: It wasn’t drawn towards anything in particular. No; her gaze was always drawn towards something ; a lot of the time that something was just a great big pile of nothing . Nonetheless, it was always drawn . And it was odd, really, for her eyes were so tired. She wanted nothing to do with her eyes being drawn, not at all , yet still - here she was. It was greening outside. The trees had sprouted a little more vigor only since this morning, and the lawn was now less wither-y y...

Ok. So I need to train for this. I need to train for writing, like runners train for marathon. I need to break it down into little pieces and look at it microscopically. I need to stop getting lost in my own tangle of thoughts, and start moving ahead with some purpose. And I might need to stop writing in English. Says who? The world is changing. Help it. Make it change. Move forward. Chase the goal and maybe it will be a truth one day. So what’s the goal? To tell my story. Without regret or shame. I am not ashamed. I  am not ashamed. I am not ashamed. I am not ashamed. I am not ashamed. There. See how it becomes truer as we speak´? Good. So buckle up, lady; were going for a ride. You need to stop hesitating. Stop doubting. Stop overthinking. What do you need? You need words. Lots of words. Stories. People. Feelings. Adventures. And you need to stop looking at things from above; you need to get inside them. Be in them. But how do you be in them when you’ve never been in anything ...

 “You all right?” “Both - yes and no.” “ That’s not cryptic at all.” “I mean, I don’t know this for certain, but I’m fairly convinced you of all people know what it feels like to carry this insufferably heavy baggage around, and yet you just know - you just know you’re gonna keep on living, one way or another, even - even if you loose your job, even if you loose your home - even if all you have left are the rags on your back, you’ll just - continue.      ‘Basically just because we don’t know how to stop.” “I guess it’s pure stubbornness.”

Image source Additional source Ho e aleina. Ho står der, ved stranda, mens bølgan vaske og slår; speide gjennom et mørke som e så tett, at det held ho fast. Men ho speide likevel. E det lys, det der ute? En flekk av ubrukelig håp i høstnatta? E det draugen, som e kommet førr å lure ho fra land; førr å trekke håpet under vann; begrave det i tareskogen, med bære en handfull albueskjell tel minnesmerke? Det lukta salt. Det lukta kaldt. Det lukta råtten jord og våt stein og tang. Ho frys. Men ho frys bære inni sæ. Nu hør ho draugen der han skratta, en buldrandes latter som rulla inn og ut mellom vindrossen; som erta og lokka og pirra. Ho myse, men ho ser han ikkje. Jo; der! En skygge utførbi skjæran. Et glimt i gule øya. Opp av havet kjæm han; ryggen bua, med tagga oppå; høg og sint mot skybankan. Så skjær han ned i en bølgedal, og blir borte. Men ho hør han fortsatt flire. Ser fortsatt blenkan fra øyan, innimella. Så blir det stilt, og ho lure på om han h...

Sylvilel As I fly Between light and stars, The vastness in my heart; Home.

©️Sylvilel Sometimes I wonder if she ever really had any faith at all. Or if she just clung to what she professed to be her faith, because she wanted so badly for something to believe in. I think it’s a default in all of us, to need something to anchor ourselves with; be it religion or people, a job, a cause. It all comes back to the clawing need to believe in something outside ourselves. * She sat in her huge, moss green plush chair, eyes glassy and distant. Her pale old-person-skin looked almost smooth under the rays of the afternoon sun. A faint reek of soap, urin and dust filled the room. I watched her chest rise and fall every three seconds, slow and rasping. She could have been sleeping. She could have been dead. But no; she was ever so much alive just yet. We sat in silence; me listening to the waning rythm of her life; she staring blankly into nothing. It was a comforting silence, and a sad one. «I’m going soon,» she said. «You know that.» Her voice sounded...