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Morning in the city

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Reading Time: 3 minutes

 

“So I am not a broken heart.
I am not the weight I lost or miles or ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and if I were to be this empty I wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete.
I am not this year and I am not your fault.
I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day,
but bones are stronger once they heal and I am smiling to the bus driver and replacing my groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower anymore.
I am the way a life unfolds and bloom and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life.
I am not your fault.”
― Charlotte Eriksson

 

 

The beautiful and slightly terrifying thing about spending your life creating things, is that all your previous selves and identities are forever captured and documented in some sort of medium. I’m a girl who finds comfort in the thought of a new day; a new beginning; clean slates. All my life I’ve found strength in the possibility of starting all over. In a new town, in a cleaner way, with a new name. But the ugly truth is that for an artist there is no ”putting the past behind you”. Maybe to a small degree, but see you also somehow can’t because you take pride in that thing you created out of it. That album, those songs, that book, those poems: they are built and made from the scattered pieces of a past version of me. I sometimes lie awake at 4am starring at that mark on the ceiling, hearing the fridge from the kitchen and asking myself stupid questions like ”will it lead anywhere?”, ”does this even matter?”, ”why do you always have to create..?”.

I write because I find my sanity through the rhythm of writing these words. I sing because it’s the most euphoric release of thoughts and emotions and suppressed opinions. I create because it’s my possibility to take my many scattered selves and piece them back together into something beautiful. It’s my way to show myself, show my doubting self, that beautiful things can be made out of seemingly broken and tired ones, and my albums and books are my private evidences. One song contains days, weeks, sometimes years of thoughts and feelings about this subject or that person or this feeling. One book contains thousands of miles, cities, train rides and sleepless nights in different beds. One creation is built from scattered pieces of forgotten strength.

I’ve written some albums and published some books. I’ve moved and left and tried to start over. A bunch of things happened, and left me someone else. Well, I’m still me, I’m still here, yet for natural and obvious reasons a different kind of me than you hear on my last record. When I sit down to write my next book, the author will be a different author than the one who wrote my last book. How beautiful is that? I find it remarkably fulfilling, to go back and read my book and think ”oh girl, you sound like a kind soul but you know nothing”. And now I think I do, but still obviously don’t, but still I have to write as if I know it all, every question my mind contains, and in a year or two I’ll go back and read this book and think ”she was on to something. Did she find it?”. or maybe I’ll think ”what a lovely state of mind, but I’m onto new adventures,” or whatever else comes to mind, and that’s the exciting part. I’m not stamping my album with my name, saying ”HERE ARE MY FEELINGS AND OPINIONS FOREVER AND EVER”. No, I’m softly writing my name, as I write my name today, saying ”this is me today, January 2017. You were a lovely version to be”.

Onwards. Upwards. Looking back but never to regret.

THE GLASS CHILD // CHARLOTTE ERIKSSON

 

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