I had three interesting experiences on my short respite of essay-writing which consisted of a brisk walk outdoors in the almost-storm and buying alimentary necessities at the local Netto the scottie dog. The first one was on the unsettling steps of Netto, when I ignored, as I always ignore, the homeless bum standing right outside the automatic doors in his shredded rags begging for money. I nervously, because I am always nervous and/or angry when visiting Netto, pushed open the door, walking in, his eyes boring into my back. "Kan du inte ens ta dig tid att svara för bövelen" he shouts after me, me turning jerkily and with scared, trembly voice mumbling "har inga mynt ändå så", then turning again, trying to shake the uncomfortable experience. Walking into the Burka-infected store, I grab a basket and the shopping commences.
Now, the second experience was as I absentmindedly looked down on the floor while standing in the abnormally long queue. There it was, lying on the dirty linoleum floor, half-crushed, its head sticking out under the cheap trainer sole of that obnoxious, fat woman who fought me minutes ago by the ham counter over the last package of Pärsson's skinka. It was the most depressing sight ever, its sticky texture sticking to under her trainer as she shuffled ahead in the slow-moving queue. Finally it dropped off and rolled away 3cm to the right where it was out of reach for cheap trainers. As if possessed, I couldn't take my eyes off it. That sad little purple key-ring whale. Yes. A whale. Purple.
The last experience was when Burka-fest became even more crowded. I was still in the queue (GODDAMMIT!) when a crowd of Burka-women walked through the doors, hastily heading for the baskets. I don't know why, but for some reason I got very agitated and felt the atmosphere (or imagined it) changing to one of a more hostile quality. And then it hit me. I know why some people don't like immigrants. It's because they are scared, scared of the unknown. They feel threatened, their normality is threatened by something abnormal. And I know why conflicts arise, because the immigrants in turn are scared of us, because we and our country is unknown to them. Thus fear versus fear and we act instinctively trying to eliminate the thing that causes the fear. I had never realized that before. In my childish ignorance I indignantly thought "why can't just everyone be buddies and love each other".
Netto is a very depressing place, generally, filled with broken people who lost their dreams and ambitions. Ugly, fat, bulging, smelly, old. Or maybe that's just how I see them. Me: young, aspiring student, hopeful, just spent a day on university information dreaming and planning about my glorious future as a wealthy diplomat and politician who makes a real difference in the world and improve living conditions for people like the homeless. Who do I think I am.
Now dreams are very fragile. They need to be nourished, taken care of, indulged. Caressed. There might be tutorials for other things, but not for taking care of dreams. Il faut les soignent.
Her heart was beating in his bleeding hand, like morse code. She said to herself, "if I reach the bend before the car, he is still alive", "if the train enters the tunnel before I count to seven, he is still alive"... Inspiring movie. About hope.
So there's the combination. Hope and dreams. Reach for your wishes, make them come true.
La musique souvent me prend comme une mer!
Vers ma pâle étoile,
Sous un plafond de brume ou dans un vaste éther,
Je mets à la voile;
La poitrine en avant et les poumons gonflés
Comme de la toile
J'escalade le dos des flots amoncelés
Que la nuit me voile;
Je sens vibrer en moi toutes les passions
D'un vaisseau qui souffre;
Le bon vent, la tempête et ses convulsions
Sur l'immense gouffre
Me bercent. D'autres fois, calme plat, grand miroir
De mon désespoir!
— Charles Baudelaire
