Choosing what to study is scary. I know that there’s no shame in quitting and simply start over again with another subject, but still.
Choosing what to do after you’ve studied for a bachelor or master is scary. You’ve got your student loans knocking on a door in the back of your head; making sure you’ll never forget. It’s time to get a real job. A look at me, I’m grown-up job. Fast.
Can you ever be one hundred per cent sure that you’ve chosen the right path while you’re still walking it? No, I don’t think so.
I have for a very long time been pretty determined on what I want to do when I grow up, and maybe also who I want to be. After desperately wanting to be an actor at the age of 8 or 9 (when I ended up crying out of nervousness on my first audition for a play), and also wanting to be a vet even though I’m allergic to almost every animal on the planet, I found out what I really liked to do- and what I didn’t end up crying or sneezing of. Writing. Most people might think ‘Well, you’ve found your thing, good for you’. But again, choosing what to study is in many ways equal with choosing what to do the rest of your life. I am not afraid to say that Mr Journalism has been the one all the way. Was it wrong of me to exclude everything else along the process of figuring out who I wanted to be? Writing is not my only interest, but it’s still the only interest that has gotten my full attention and appreciation in the planning of my future. I guess it is easier to come up with one plan and stick with it, rather than looking at millions of options. If you see it the other way, however, it is easier to regret your choice when you haven’t been checking out all of your possibilities in the first place.
This is not a ‘I regret my choice of career preparation’ text, because I really don’t. I love writing, and I have fun in the making of my bachelor in Journalism and Creative Writing. Sometimes I just wonder whether I’ve taken on my evaluation of options to easily. I do take the eager I feel, both for the rest of my years of studying and for getting a real job, as a positive sign. A sign that I’m heading in the right direction. Heading for my dream job.
Richmond Upon Thames with all its loveliness.
Elise and me on new adventures.
Spring flowers outside the school library.
Richmond Park and all its wonderful dear’s. My all-time favourite park.
Hampstead Heath Park, looking down at Central London and feeling like I’m on top of the world.
So so so satisfied and happy (and a bit proud) to have survived my first year at Uni. Ready to celebrate with good friends, wine and Norway’s pride: Kaizers Orchestra.
My mum sent me small packages almost monthly with my favourite norwegian magazine and of course the legendary norwegian milk chocolate.
An early day in December (I think) when the snow had turned Richmond Park into a winter wonderland.
Richmond Park in the autumn.
Breakfast/Lunch at The Breakfast Club, yuuum.
Sons and Lovers, a oh-so-lovely London based band.
Mari and me very drunk and very happy (until reality hit us.. but that’s a story for another day).
All these photos are taken with my incredible Iphone camera, but please don’t shoot me. I’ll start using my Canon again very soon, promise.
Love. I don’t know how important that is, but one thing I do know; the feeling of being loved means more than words can say. By the lady on the subway who sends you a carefully put smile, or the grey haired man behind the counter of Marks and Spencer. The being in love and being loved often gets together hand in hand, but it also most often don’t. One of the hardest things in life is knowing whether you are in love, or in the feeling of being in love. Sometimes you want a boyfriend so bad that the love for a relationship with the handsome guy you never thought you would be good enough for, takes over for the love you think you have for this guy. You’re not in love with him, you’re in love in the thought of a descent relationship with someone you thought was out of your league.
LOVE. It’s probably the most used word in the English language. So simple, yet full of meaning. So short, but the letters tell us a thousand different things. I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to anyone. Well, beside my parents, sisters and friends. And probably random hook-ups when I was a bit too drunk and should have gone home a long time ago. Three simple words that can mean the world to a person to hear. I know it would for me. For anyone who has watched The Carrie Diaries, you remember how she waits for the perfect moment to tell Sebastian that she loves him. Actually, she waits so long that their relationship falls apart because of it. I’ve always wanted to be Carrie. In her New York apartment, having her very own column and a job in Vogue. Not to forget her clothes and shoes. But watching Carrie while growing up in Connecticut, I do for the first time recognize myself in her. I sometimes wait ta long time to tell people how much I really like them, and then suddenly one day it’s too late.
Love has never been on my side when it comes to relationships. Actually I’ve never been in a proper one. Maybe I’m just too picky when it comes to choosing a man, or maybe I just don’t go well along with the four-lettered word that we all either see with romance or with fear. I guess I often see it the latter way because that’s the easiest. Who doesn’t want the easy way out?
Love. A word of many meanings. A word of many feelings. A word that has the power to scare the shit out of a person, but also make us feel alive.
Notting Hill is by my opinion one of the most beautiful parts of London. I’ve fallen in love with the majestic houses and cosy vintage shops, lovely restaurants and peaceful streets (on weekdays of course).
Not to forget the colorful and charming buildings in Portobello market.
My future home to the right, and one of my best friends future pink home to the left.
One of my favorite people on this planet.
Myself squinting at the sun and looking a bit chubby.
All photos// private
Private// picture from my last blog: tusensmil.wordpress.com
Lying in bed, staring at the glowing stars in the ceiling. Listening to the soft voice of my mother and curling my cold toes under the warm duvet. She runs her fingers through my curly hair while telling a bedtime story. Tucks me in, kisses my forehead and turns the light off. The stars glow more intense in the dark and I fall asleep with mum’s last words echoing in my head. The very last words of tonight’s bedtime story.
We’ve all had our fair share of bedtime stories. Why stop now?
We dream at night, we dream at day. We tell each other stories, we make up stories in our head. Why don’t write these stories down? Every word can be a story and every sentence can create a little piece of originality. Every original piece of text can fill a blog with new bedtime stories.
Yep, it looks like I’m back on this lovely road where pictures really do say more than a thousand words and where diary-thoughts comes out on paper for all to see. Scary, but oh so lovely.