I hate when the band stops playing and you have to think about what will you do for the rest of your life.

Terrible fear grabbed me today. I was reading through my ancient blog called Ode to Mando Diao - honestly I had no clue it is still viral and out there. I do not even remember what pushed me back (like a wave, like a tidal wave for god´´ s sake) but there I was - reading every post since 2010 and realizing it is fucking truth what some scientist say. That your whole cellular structure changes every seventh year (or so) meaning you are literally a different person. Not in a abstract way. Literal.

Honestly, I have no idea why I am writing this here. Maybe it is the ghost of that person peaking out, saying hi, asking: "How are you doing, future self?"

Cause I used to write.

(And no, DO NOT sing that Arcade Fire song!)

Yes. I used to write. Not only letters. I used to write. Just for the pleasure of it. For the sake of writing.

Because I needed to FEEL. And I needed to NAME the feelings. I needed to SHARE. And SPREAD LOVE. I needed to write about love and MUSIC and felt so many thing (almost infinite number) and I was able to name them and the writing on that blog is so genuine, smooth, so naive, yet beautiful and so good.

I do not think I can write so good anymore.

Funny, cause noone was listening back then. Well, a few. But not so many like now. Noone paid me for my writing, yet I wrote with all my heart, my fucking passion (and there was SO MUCH PASSION IN ME!) (where did all the passion go??) and now...

... and now what?

I was reading the old blog and I literally could not remember any of it. Just glimpses, sometimes not even that. There was music. I recall. That much is true. And love and journey and dreams (and chasing them) and trying to catch them and falling short. And there were coincidences and signs (so many signs!) and destiny and every moment hold such meaning.

I read my own words describing reality that no longer exist of a person that not longer exists and I got scared, terrified, that I lost her. Just in the moment when things got interesting.

For a tiny little glimpse of a moment I though: but what if I managed earlier? What if the fuckers published my book ten fucking years earlier? Wouldn´´ t it be better then? I had SO MUCH words inside of me. So much thoughts. Such a hope.

I am not bitter. I just float through my days feeling heavy and years pass by without a hint of a sign and every evening in my bed I pray for dreams I used to have and all I dream of is...

This post has no sense. And that is the beauty of it. If anyone reads up until this moment, I am in awe. But this is how it used to be.

I used to write.

Not thinking about writing.

Not TALKING about writing.

Not planning to write.

Not analyzing the writing.

Not cenzoring myself.

I wrote what I FELT.

And it is all on that forgotten blog. One amazing life I used to have.

I guess, you never stop, don´ t you, Mando Diao?

PS: Oh, I think I got asked many times why I lived in Sweden and honestly I think I answered thruthfully since I forgot I used to be someone else. But the truth is, my dearest (non existent) reader.

It was because of them.

It was because of music.

And yes, I am on that stage.

--

S pozdravem Veronika Opatrilova

(And I know that you know that we know)