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It’s New Years Eve and the ground lay bare without snow in Toronto. I dress up even though you and your friends don’t believe in New Years Eve. In the afternoon we’re at your French relatives house, eating canapés that are impossible to identify. They’ve pickled herring for me and in front of a whole french audience I eat the fish I didn’t want to touch. One cannot possible let this many relatives down if I want to ever come back. The clock strikes 6pm and there is champagne and kisses and a thousand French words for everybody, because it’s now 2015 in France. In Stockholm too, I try to convince them and they play Abba for me in response. My lungs ache with approaching fever and my head spin slightly from the beers, but it feels lovely, especially as the family’s large fat cat spreads out in my lap.

With bags full of clinking bottles we enter the tube a few hours later. It’s spewing out drunk Torontonians in sequins and hopes of getting laid. Your friend’s flat fills up pretty quickly and your sister make me bloody marys because I’ve told her it’s my favourite hangover cure. I swirl around leaving traces of my perfume hanging in the air and barely know a single song we play. I’m slightly sick but happy as fuck for finally ending this stupid weird year of 2014. If I can manage the turbulence of the past 12 months, I must be tougher than I thought.

You play my favourite track as the countdown begins and the room fills with cheers and screams. It’s silly that a second is suppose to matter this much. When it’s over and done the song doesn’t stop until another minute. That’s when you suddenly stand in front of me, worryingly putting my face in your hands. I forgot to kiss you at midnight! You switch between my eyes to try and find something to confirm your fear. When you don’t you continue. Are we the worst couple in history? It makes me laugh, maybe because I’m a bit drunk, or maybe because I think all couple cliches are ridiculous. Sometimes we really do suck, I tell you, but at least we are great at making up for it. You smile and gently press me against the living room wall with all your friends around. Your fingers are in my hair and these seconds are longer than any damn countdown in the world. I do get kissed. So who gives a fuck.

Around us all the Canadians play music I haven’t heard of and they get so into it that it’s impossible to dislike any of it even though it’d never be allowed into my itunes. Nobody wants to leave the flat because it’s at that point in the night where all those brilliant tracks just suddenly comes to mind and there are too many too queue and not nearly enough time. We finish the whiskey but not the discussions but somehow manage to spill out on the street. Outside it’s icy but we barely notice. We jump some tram and enter some bars where your friends have been waiting. They are almost empty and we could not care less but order drinks and fall into walls that drop their paintings.

Hours later we somehow end up at a diner because according to me it’s impossible not to when celebrating NYE in North America. In a corner booth we squeeze in all twelve of us. It’s loud and busy and hot, with cutlery slamming against floors and girls laughing louder than explosives. Somebody drops my camera and my new expensive lens cracks and I don’t even get upset because we’ve ordered deep fried mac’n’cheese balls and strawberry milkshakes. And I feel light and not heavy. When the taxi arrives at home the snow flies furiously around and I can feel my body fainting from exhaustion and fever. I shiver the whole night but you wrap your arms around me and it almost stops. Time stops. Perhaps it’ll always be January 1 2015.

The remaining two days of the trip I’m almost unconscious from fever. I hate this stupid thing of being apart from you and having spent two weeks getting used to being together again, I ache. The flight home takes 18 hours and I don’t get well until we’re in my bed in Stockholm. My family isn’t home and the house is cold but I pass out instantly next to you eating takeaway McDonald’s.

Jet lag holds us victims and I wake up at 4.30am and whisper quietly to see if you’re awake too. You are. With two duvets and all of my pillows we go downstairs and crawl into the sofa. It’s pitch black for another four hours and I shriek because it is so nice to lie here on your chest and watch shitty tv all alone in an empty house. Just us, and a new better, kinder year.




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I can’t remember the last time it was like this. At least five months ago, because that’s how many months we have lived split lives. But I’d say it has been even longer, perhaps before you went on your motorcycle trip down in Cali last summer.

It was that weekend when the summer sky was boiling hot and even more evil, whipping our house with its anger. The streetlights flickered and at the end of our road several rubbish bins fell and empty cans slammed the asphalt time after time. The rain flooded the windowpane and let the light dance in the projected streams across your skin. London lay quiet and we were probably short of money as usual or just in love because leaving the house was not an option.

I only wore pants once during those days. It was when we ran the 150m in the pouring rain to the tiny off license to buy tortellini, canned soup and ice cream. Back inside we were drenched down to our bone and didn’t hesitate to strip as no flatmates would be home for days. The wooden floor wasn’t even cold against my skin.

The rest of the time we spent in our bed discussing or streaming series whilst building mountains of empty wrappers and cans. Several times we had to turn up the volume when the thunder made our door shudder.

We must’ve watched something scary because I had to wake you up in the middle of the night so that you could check so that nobody had broken in. Afterwards we laughed at my being so scared of the dark and I fell back asleep on your chest. Downstairs our wet shoes didn’t dry for another four days. I don’t think that I for once those days remembered that there were other people in this world.

Now, perhaps seven months later we finally got to do nothing but stay in the house again. This time here in Stockholm. No friends to see, no city to explore, no money to spend. Just us. And I got to properly remember how that stormy weekend smelled, because it smelled like you.



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Hackney Mornings

I wake up from a ray of sun sizzling a sliver of my cheek and right eyelid. For the first time in weeks I feel well rested. Perhaps because I helplessly fell asleep in the taxi on our way home from that photography studio turned club in Shadwell last night.

Daniel Clapton -14

For hours I had struggled to keep the buzz up, to socialise among hundreds of Londoners dressed up as Dia de los Muertos, Mario Brothers and various creepy characters. Finally I was in this city again, so I couldn’t just go home and sleep and miss out on all the things I miss so intensely back in Stockholm. Once in the taxi though, I was beyond rescue and instantly fell into hard slumber, only waking from you gently shaking me with a laugh.

Daniel, Clapton -14

Now it’s you who’s sleeping. I’m lying here pretending we don’t exist outside this room as it all would be so much more simple then. I try not to wake you up even though I really want to. I watch the sun sweep over the worn concrete wall, over your well tailored jackets, a hat I’ve only seen you wear once and over the wooden beams we climb over to get into your bed. I wonder how the fuck it feels when you wake up here alone.

When I left in August and cried and you cried, my heart didn’t survive anymore but had never made me so aware of its existence. Our standard joke in midst of the misery then was that at least now, you will get to sleep in because I won’t be there to wake you up.

Daniel in the attic

But that’s then, when I’m in a different city, a different country even, and it feels like an elastic band stretched out to the max is pulling my heart back to London. Where I used to live with you, but I don’t anymore. If I would just forget and let go for a split second my heart would catapult straight back here. But it’d get ripped away from the rest of me and I’d return to being a shell.

You can sleep when I’m gone, not now. So I wake you up by kissing you slightly too violently, and telling you exactly that sad joke of ours. You smile a sleepy smile and say you don’t even mind.

Daniel climbing out his window

Once we’re awake I never want to leave the bed but after a while you get impatient and we get up. I put on my shortest skirt because I know you like it and I feel like a queen in it. Also it’s the only garment I packed which is suitable for the 25degrees outside.The rest of my bag is made up by faux fur, artsy turtlenecks and leather dresses. Gorgeous clothing but I wish all November days would feel like summer and I’d throw them out in a second.

– OMG Daniel, we have to climb up on your roof! I shout out of nowhere, which I tend to do when something brilliant suddenly hits me.

– What – now? What about brunch? I’m starving! you reply, borderline hangry (hunger + anger you know).

Well, I’m going up on your roof, you can stay here. (me behaving like a teenager)

Daniel, Hackney, nov -14

And with a skirt too short and a window too small I climb out with everything apart from grace, looking more like a GIRLS episode then an American Apparel ad. Once up though London pierces my soul probably eleven times. This city! I shove my head down the window and shout down to you:


I know you think I’m completely mental but hilarious (which I am more than happy to live with) and you cave in and climb up to me.

Linn on Daniel's rooftop, London

We hang out on the roof tiles, and I want to scream because I don’t feel an ounce of sadness. Up there with the bus 55 thundering past us below it feels like that time after just a few dates when we climbed out your window onto the roof of Spitalfield’s market with breakfast and steaming coffees. Your music blasting out of the speakers and my being so impressed about the fact that you who adore music more than anything still had a favourite song. Sun showers passed over us and fucking hell I was dizzy from being around you.

We laugh at that now because how weird isn’t it that there was a time when we were strangers still.

Daniel on his rooftop The sun is burning away all the autumn gloom in our skin and veins so that we can pretend it’s spring approaching and not a deadly winter. The woman on the fourth floor in the neighbouring house smiles and waves at us with her cigarette. She seems to sit in her window smoking in her maroon coloured kimono every single time I look. She must be a writer of some kind or maybe she’s just a freelancing(unemployed possibly post grad) student with a sassy wardrobe like the rest of London. At least she’s not depressed, yet. Something that is sure in this life is that depressed people don’t wave, so good for her.

– Should we head down? I ask.

Yeah, I’m fucking dying, let’s go for brunch.

I love you being a drama queen, just like me.




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I hate aching but it is almost worst not to

Daniel, Södermalm Daniel was visiting again here in Stockholm a few weeks ago. He’s a star, spending his money flying over to a colder and more expensive country just for me. I must be fabulous. I hate that I’m getting used to living away from Daniel. I don’t want to. I hate aching but it is almost worst not to. To instead finding it normal not to live with my boyfriend, to not share a home and a life. And I’m constantly terrified of letting our life slip just slightly too far that I get so used to us being apart that being together would feel even more odd. Therefore I force myself not to settle down too much but to constantly be ready to fly back. So I shed every little thing that would tie me down just a little more. Phone contracts, gym cards, doing up my room so that I like it, owning a bike or even making too many new friends. I refuse to become one in the long line of couples who fall apart when they are apart. And when he comes and it’s worth it all, I mean I die inside in the happiest possible way. But it’s confusing, and heart breaking.   How do you deal with long distance relationships?   Linn  


linn3photo by lovisa An apology for my absence. Not only the past 10 days but I’ve been distant for a long time. I’m glad you missed me even though you’re annoyed. I need to update you on my lost state of being because it’s all a big mess and you must be just as confused as me:   These past 9months have been awful. I have had a big teenage depression, crying most nights of the week, completely inconsolable. Nothing has felt like fun and I’ve been hiding from both family and friends, school and the future which has resulted in my feeling even more lonely and lost. The only person I could be around was Daniel who has been a fucking superhero, going out of his way to do everything for me. But I could see his desperation and fear shining through, not being able to fix what’s wrong. The reason being me hating my uni and wanting to drop out but not knowing what I should do instead or what I want with myself. I didn’t want to take a retail job and there were no alternative schools in London. The only thing that got me excited was a program I found at Hyper Island in Stockholm, Sweden. But Stockholm is the last place I want to live in. What about me and Daniel? Long distance or Daniel moving to Sweden? But he doesn’t speak the language? Would he get a job? Would our relationship last? How about this life I’ve got here? My friends? Should I stick it out in London instead? I freaked out and felt my world crashing down on me. The fear and panic poisoned me. If Daniel is the only one who got me through this misery I could never risk anything to happen to us! So I decided I would stay in the program I was at and worked my ass off but just to get even more miserable. So Daniel told me to get my shit together and apply to Hyper Island anyway and we’ll make sure to figure things out when it comes to that. I then spent day and night for the remaining two weeks of the creative task that people had 6 months to complete. It felt impossible. And oh dear, a few weeks ago, in the midst of all my final hand ins I receive an email that I’m one of the 70 out of 249 who has been accepted to the next round in the application process and need to come in on the 23rd of May for an admissions day. I lost my breath. With fear excitement panic sorrow and happiness. The past two weeks were just been a big confusion. Buried under my last hand ins and worries I completely neglected this cyberspace haven. A place which usually brings me joy and comfort but lately has been infested by mean comments and pressure. Whichever way I wrote or behaved, didn’t write or didn’t behave, whoever I hung out with or didn’t hang out with, looked like or didn’t look like I was always wrong. And I’m an imperfect person with tons of flaws but also many wicked sides, just like all of you. But it was like people assumed that I meant harm and that all along I’ve just been trying to cover up the fact that I’m a bad person. The more I gave and opened up the nastier people were and the heavier I felt, which sucks! So I kind of stopped. Despite having anxiety attacks about life I managed to hand in my last 9 essays on the day of the deadlines and flew to Stockholm the same day. On the admissions day I was a wreck but managed to get through the day with an interview with three different Hyper people, a 90min individual task and a 2hrs group task. I cried on my interview when they asked me what my biggest secret was. But I was honest and it felt fucking awesome. I had so much fun and everybody there were goddamn geniuses! The ideas we created, stories people told and the methods we were taught during that day inspired me more than this whole year at LCC. So now I’m back in London, more confused than ever. Because the last thing I want is to move away from the loves of my life, this city and my man. But I’ve never wanted to go somewhere so badly as I want to go to Hyper Island now. On the week of the 9th of June I find out. Only 30 people get accepted. Either way I’ll cry, because I’m clearly a cry baby. What I do know is that no matter what I am going to drop out of LCC. Nothing is worth feeling like this for. And I’m not taking on another job this summer but I’m going to spend it being poor in the sun, and I am going to write. Short stories, articles, create zines and maybe start a novel. But yes, this is what has been going on. Sure there were good moments too, like getting to know Kajsa and Ornella who were my rocks. I desperately clung onto every happy moment not to get absolutely lost, and that’s also what I posted here. A blog is made out of fractions of peoples lives, and put together it almost creates fiction. Which is amazing! Why shouldn’t we dream and escape a bit? This is supposed to be a place for that, which sometimes also includes misery and sorrow, but often not. Posting all my happy days here made me realise this past 9 months that I had lovely, magical times too, which gives me hope. And it is getting brighter! Thanks for still reading and sending me nice messages now and then. Every single compliment or hello from you means the world to me. So let’s make this a pleasant place, where it’s fun for you to read but also for me to write and soon we’ll get back on track. <3 (and a big applause to you who read this enormous text)   Linn

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