Written July 2022, Skåne, Sweden
This is about the weight of knowing yourself too well, of wrestling with endless questions, of wanting both escape and understanding. It’s about being in motion, not because you know where you’re going, but because stillness feels unbearable.
This piece was originally written in Danish—on a bicycle trip I did in Sweden. I’ve included the original version below, along with an English translation. Enjoy!
Jeg glemte at glemme mig selv derhjemme. Nu sidder jeg her i sandet under en himmel syet sammen af stjerner og vugger min bevidsthed i håndfladen. Den er lille, rastløs, aldrig stille—et utålmodigt barn, der hiver i mit ærme og stiller endeløse spørgsmål.
Hvad laver stjernerne, når vi ikke kan se dem?
Hvilke krymmel smager egentlig bedst på en softice?
Hvorfor skræmmer kærlighed mig mere end tanken om at rejse alene jorden rundt?
Hvor mange liv har jeg egentlig tilbage?
Hvordan ved jeg, hvad jeg virkelig vil?
Hvad sker der, hvis jeg fejler?
Hvis ikke nu, hvornår så, Sara?
Hver dag bærer jeg byrden af at kende mig selv, af at blive iagttaget af mit eget sind, af at eksistere som en rastløs rejsende i mellemrummet mellem svarene. Jeg er en sort malstrøm af spørgsmål, der sluger sandheder, før jeg overhovedet kan smage dem. Min bevidsthed er insisterende, påtrængende, altid to skridt foran, hviskende i mit øre som en alt for ivrig guide til et sted, jeg aldrig har ønsket at besøge.
Jeg har forsøgt at flygte fra den før. En gang tror jeg endda, at jeg slap væk. Men var jeg vågen i en drøm eller følelsesløs i virkeligheden? Var jeg lykkelig eller bare fastfrosset midt i et skridt? Måske lykkeligt lammet. Uanset hvad fandt den mig igen en aften, siddende på kantstenen som en, der var løbet hjemmefra. Med et suk og et let bebrejdende blik rakte den ud efter min hånd, og vi fortsatte vores vandring sammen.
For vi er bedst til at drive. Stillestanden bider sig for dybt ind i mine knogler. Men var det ikke netop det, du skulle lære mig, Bevidsthed? At stå stille? Bare et øjeblik?
Nå. Vi cykler videre i morgen.
I forgot to forget myself at home. Now I’m sitting in the sand, under a sky stitched together with stars, cradling my consciousness in my palm. It’s small, fidgety, never quiet—an impatient child tugging at my sleeve, asking endless questions.
What do the stars do when we can’t see them?
What kind of sprinkles are actually best on soft serve?
Why does love terrify me more than traveling the world alone?
How many lives do I even have left?
How do I know what I truly want?
What happens if I fail?
If not now, then when, Sara?
Every day, I endure the weight of knowing myself, of being observed by my own mind, of existing as a restless traveler through the space between answers. I am a black whirlpool of questions, swallowing every truth before I can taste it. My consciousness is relentless, intrusive, always two steps ahead, whispering in my ear like an overzealous tour guide to a place I’ve never wanted to visit.
I’ve tried to escape it before. Once, I think I even succeeded. But was I awake in a dream or numb to reality? Was I happy or merely frozen mid-step? Perhaps blissfully paralyzed. At any rate, it found me again one evening, sitting on the curb like a runaway. With a sigh and a slightly disapproving look, it reached for my hand, and we walked on together.
Because drifting is what we do best. Stillness gnaws too deeply into my bones. But wasn’t that your job, Consciousness? To teach me to stand still? Just for a moment?Well.
We’ll keep cycling tomorrow.
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