Three journals is mostly too much, especially because I like to get the biggest possible audience for everything I say. So I neglect this, but maybe it's good. Maybe I only write in here when I actually have something to say, something to write about.

I'm fucking tired, have been for couple of hours now. But I had to go through some poems, since I need to sent them to one competiton tomorrow. Though it's useless, I have only once got any recognition from any of those - they published two of my poems when I was suicidal teenager.

The results of the competition will be announced in April. When I know for sure that there's nothing to gain from there, I'll probably try to publish those anyway - and some more. I don't know if anyone is interested in reading them, if they are any good... but I want to. I really want to make my art available somehow, to share it.

To throw pieces of my soul around me. I want to at least TRY to touch people I will never even meet.

It's not about getting attention. It's not about being known. It's about the feelings, the emotions, the urge to write words on a paper - and the urge to share them, to give people something to think about. Because whatever my poems might be, they are not empty. There is something in them, something that wants to be questioned, to be executed, to be felt.

I want people to feel, to question, to wonder. I want to show them the lights of the city from a new angle. I want to be able to make them stop, just for a second, just for a blink of the eye. To stop and say "where have I heard this before, why is this familiar?"

And then realize it's their lives I'm writing about. Their neighbours, their daughters, their sons who find devils. From a different point of view. Or maybe, maybe from the same.

And most of all I want to share the poems, because I believe that poetry is a form of art that most of all needs to be interpreted, needs to be read, needs to develope because somebody is reading it. Poetry is not about telling how things are, how they should be... it's not about plot. It's about the reader. It grows every time another person reads it, sees something familiar in it, feels it, gives it a new meaning. It's the form of art which everyone can experience in a different way.

It's the kind of thing where less means more. You can put thousand lives in the shortest poem, because a poem is never, ever the same to the writer and the reader.

I wish I could explain this properly.

I couldn't go through all that happened during the year 2008 - I wouldn't remember. It feels like they year lasted for a decade... It began as a drunken haze, continued with a visit to the closed compartment, slowly turning into realization I shouldn't be drinking so much alcohol. May Day 2008 was the last of my drunken days, counting out the one time I gave into the devil's lures and got hammered just to prove I shouldn't do it.

The summer was crazy and beautiful, full of night time wanderings and weird silences, which I have only recently learned to break. 23.6.2008 has been written on my wall, just for myself to remember when the bad days come. I don't remember anything at all from that day, but I know I was abso-fucking-lutely happy then.

The human beings have confused me more than ever - yet I have gained from them more than ever, also. I have found joy and sadness again, and I'm still the one to hope for the unbelievable, the impossible. The hope is, actually, stronger than it has been previously.

It was a good year. But it will fade away, just like all the others. Only this moment holds us together, only this moment is worth living. It's sad, yet so beautiful. There is nothing more.

I find this userpic absolutely appropriate for the entry, since I'm mainly going to complain about insomnia. Or, to be precise, I'm going to tell you about it and you're going to interpret it as if I was complaining: that's how it mostly works, since I adore many things others find negative, and so on, love love love blah blah blah. (That's actually a really fine piece of lyric!)

So Thursday was okay, went to Club Anvil in Lady Moon, with party as a starters and an afterparty at my place. People left the afterparty around six-seven o'clock in the morning, so it was a rather short afterparty seeing as the club ended 4 o'clock and due to debating over whether to walk or take a cab, we arrived at Fleminginkatu around 5 am.

No bother. There was a pretty girl sleeping in my bed and I felt wide awake, so instead of sleeping I went to work. Arrived there around 7 o'clock, caused an alarm, called the boss to sort it out and other routines. Tried to sleep on the couch because I felt so dizzy, didn't work. I was wide awake. Came home around 11 or 12, dropped on the floor due to tiredness but still fucking couldn't sleep. Awesome.

I was too awake to even try to sleep 'til 8 pm. Then tried it couple of times with no luck, until I finally fell asleep - only to wake up half an hour later. In the end, I got probably four hours of continuous sleep-time at the most, but good 8 hours together. I wasn't tired when I woke up on Saturday morning, and well. That was almost 45 hours ago, and I have napped for short periods (like 5 minutes) since, and then got three hours rest from 7 pm to 11 pm on Sunday evening.

I'm not tired. I can't sleep, I'm far too awake. Any physical exercise in this state would probably be a killer experience, but I could write an essay pretty easily. Some guy asked me whether I'm an insomniac while I was in Prague, and I answered probably. Due to this experience, I'd say well hell yes I am! Or at least my sleeping rhythm is the most odd thing ever.

And because I like to count these things... in the last 85 hours I have slept 11 hours. I'd really love to go to sleep now, but you know, the thing that's keeping me awake...

I'm far too happy.

Have a very ___________ Christmas!

I have been traveling. From Tallinn to Vilnius and then to Prague, where I stayed for five days. Then I came to Stockholm, and tonight is time to leave back to Finland. Needless to say, I have no will nor wish to return. Not just yet. Maybe after thousand days of strange countries I could.

Don't get me wrong. Or actually, please do.

No, I love living in Finland. I love the life I have there, I love the people I share it with, and I don't feel bad returning there because I'd be depressed or lonely or sad in Finland. It's just this overpowering, overwhelming, obsessive wanderlust that has caught me makes me so restless, so thirsty for new blood, cities, people, experiences, views...

It's not about some place making me happier, or me being happier traveling. I think happiness is hard to comprehend, anyway. It's about needing something so desperately that it's almost like oxygen. It's about an addiction that has no cure: you can switch heroin to subutex, but wanderlust? Trying to give an alternative to traveling as the solution, well... make a bird walk instead of flying. Persuade her!

You'll need the charm of a devil to do that, and still she will never stop longing for the moments spent with the winds.

Everything is so difficult. With. People. Can't you just... well, I don't know. Stop using the three dots, stop having second thoughts which I can see and don't like, but won't take into account when acting, since it might be just my imagination.

And I should probably, well, I don't know, what can I do differently? I like to be friendly to people, I like to give my number to anyone who asks it, I like to meet people I find interesting. Just because of that. No second thoughts.

Of course there are people whom I like more than I tell them, but still - I might have wishes, but I never ever ask anyone anything because I want (but might wish) something else or think that'd mean something'd happen. Unless, of course, I ask straight.

Which I seldom do. That just means I don't get what I want that often, but since the other option is so often much more fun, I don't mind.

You know what's funny?

I can't describe it. But I think I have friends.

I've noticed this before, but it keeps amazing me. It really does.