Pinsam öppenhet

Så där, då hade man träffat en statsminister när man hade öppen gylf.

*Check!*

Jag erkänner ett problem

När man har något att göra kanske man tänker "det där ska jag göra". Om samma tanke om samma sak tänks nästa dag och senare nästa dag igen, då har det som skulle göras inte gjorts.

Underligt nog får jag väldigt många deja vu-upplevelser när jag tänker "det där borde jag göra". Varför de aldrig blir gjorda har jag ingen aning om. Det är för mig ett mysterium. Att förstå en så enkel sak som sina egna handlingar, vad man gör och inte gör, kan vara oförståligt svårt och att handskas med någon oförståligt svårt är inte något enkelt.

The war was forgotten

"What is war?" asked journalist the young boy while taking a sip of the hot black coffee. The café was filled with the lack of smell of newly baked bread and instead had a vague odour of tobacco smoke and by passing cars. They had met outside the royal air force recruiting facility and just of coincedence started to talk cause none of them knew what to do next. The journalist had been thrown out of the facility with the reason of not asking the right kind of questions, in other words, he did not ask the newly recruited how lucky, proud and important they felt now when they were going to the front somewhere far overseas. The young boy was one of those new recruits.

The young boy looked at the journalist, opened his mouth but out came no words. He knew how speak and he knew how to understand questions, but now no answer came to mind and even less to his tongue. The journalist leaned back, not anymore waiting for a reply, lit an cigarette and just nonchalant looked at some vehicles passing by bumping on the uneven cobble street. "Isn't war a way to win?" said the boy. Immediately he regreted his answer. Why did he say it as question? Did this dirty, costume suit dressed snob made him unsure of himself and why did he feel like he put himself into submersive role? A silent, hot anger shoke his inner torso and he looked down in shame. Calmly the journalist raised his eyebrows with a faint smile and said "Indeed, it is." and casually blew a small puff of smoke. "But what to win?". The boy looked up and met the journalist's eyes. "To win respect, to earn safety and retain our prosperity!" he said with a fierce determination. Suprised of his sudden uprisen attitude, the journalist met the young boy's blue eyes, burning but still pure white as shimmering pearl and clear blue like summer skies. The boy's newfound heavy breath and shallow pumping pulse made made him glow. As blown away like a disapearing puff of smoke, the journalist saw this, just seconds ago, harmless and slightly lost boy becoming an angelic being spiting flaming words as if they were lumps of litten tar. The journalist admired the boy's passion but not the depth of his belief, he was convinced that war made noone happy, nor respected, safe or prosperous, but on the contrairy sad, feared, exposed and poor. "Have you been given this respect, safety or prosperity as you so eagerly talks about?" the journalist said harshly and brought his cup close to his lips. The boy's eyes went from burning spears to melting ice, cool and calm like lost pearls. Once again the answers seemed to have escaped his thoughts. "It is for everyone, not just me." he tried. The journalist still kept the cup close to his lips and asked "Is it for the people overseas?".

Nothing around them was silent, the traffic, the slowly turning fan in the ceiling, the few other guests in the café and even the building seemed to make it self heard in a nonrecognisable way. They sat there, looking at each other and time was turning a very long minute. Would it help the people overseas to bring war to their lands? Could you steal yourself some happyiness? The questions made loops inside the young boy's mind without coming to ease and settle with an answer. Thoughts was twisting, turning and burning in his eyes. The journalist, still keeping the cup close, took a sip and let his lips rest on the porseline, like a gentle kiss longing for more coffee, and he said "What kind of respect is earned by spreading fear? What kind of safety is earned by taking away other's? What kind of prosperity is earned by making people poor?". The boy looked up into the journalist's eyes. "What kind of peace is earned by waging war?" was the journalist's final words and let the porseline rest onto his lips as silent seal. Searching for something he did not know what it was, the boy let his sight run over the journalist face and he stopped, staring at the cup resting upon his lips, as it was waiting to be sipped, waiting to be gone, waiting to be loved. "I don't want to go to war. I want to be gone." the boy said and a tear ran down his cheek.

Later on, the boy was gone.