Two days of bread and choices. We are munching pieces broken off the seed topped rye bread I bought before dance class as we walk all the way to the tram, down the main road, talking about plain simplicities, of all the good moments, the good intentions and emotions once you’re out of the rut, and how the only way out sometimes seems to be a backpack and a trip to nowhere, because it does not make a difference if you don’t know where you are headed when you really don’t know where you are headed, and it is much the same if you make a mistake and fall by risking the unknown when the road you are on also seems to slope.

For hours I lie awake, thinking of all the choices, the possibilities, and I am tired of thinking, you know, even though I know I am still learning, evolving, taking responsibility for my life, targeting and pursuing aims because the choices are good for nothing if I only count them, however exact I may be if I let life pass me by, I know, you don’t have to tell me, and you know, I have to find myself first, and it may take quite a while, and time will only tell if you are there when I am ready.

I need silent places, a small village perhaps, or the distant seaside of the Pacific ocean. She tells me I should make plans to have an awesome summer, just for my sake, to go to Scandinavia, perhaps, but I keep thinking of quiet places, a hammock and pillows and books and green grass and lavender, friendly talk, no explanations needed, a proper retreat and proper feelings, not seclusion, not solitude, just understanding and patience.