Reality

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The reality is that I'm skiträdd.

The reality is that I don't have a clue what I'm doing.

The reality is that I really, really feel like a jättekorkad man.

For that I have made foolhardy choices.

For that I am naive, impatient and overconfident.

To exhaustion on a regular basis prevents me from being able to tackle the situation I put myself in.

Because I know how subtle boundary between succeeding lift and crash landings.

Weeks pass, and I suspect that I will not be granted.

Weeks go by and I know I can't get sick pay if I qualify for financial aid.

Weeks go by and I know I have to get the money to roll in. Now.

My financial buffer suffices a month. I'm single. I have no parents with fat bank accounts.

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The reality is also that I get lucky by seasonal fluctuation.

Since this summer's calm, the fog, the slowly sinking temperature.

The colors, the scents, the sounds in the ever-changing nature.

The sea …

I enjoy every salt spray that hits my senses.

I'm dying to use the body, hands.

Longs so after getting to me drive more boat, bigger boat.

It itches all over me by impatience, I yearn so!

Feverishly spins my radar in search of my context.

Really is that I suddenly find myself writing and sending small messages back and forth.

Messages that I want to cut in, I have a couple of handfuls.

Go ahead, here I am, I'm happy for a few hours!

And the reality is responding.

 

In the middle of the reality.

Skiträdd. Forward.

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