And it stopped, just like that. The words didn’t flow anymore and the blog became silent. My head wasn’t quiet, though. Nor my dick was inactive. Those last days in Chile weren’t shy on the wet and warm visits of a female companion, as my stay back home was coming to an end and the winter approached from the Far North.

I was on drugs, to keep my anxiety down, and high on life. I didn’t need women. I had a few, anyway. And the problems came along.

35 years. It sounds like a long time. Long enough to polish and craft myself into a decent human being. But no. I needed more time. Dropping the looney pills didn’t help. Anxiety came back with full force, like a tsunami of self-destruction. And I became a hurricane, ravaging everyone on my path.

But I stayed sober. 6 months and counting now. Not all is lost.

Gave up on my ex. But, somehow, I haven’t given up on love. “Love.” “Amor.” “Kærlighed.” However you wanna call it. The expectations of it, lingering under all that depression and existential angst. That subtle light amidst the darkest, longest night.

My family got closer together. My stay in Santiago wasn’t in vane, and I left happy. Somewhat happy. Content, at least. “My work here is done,” I might have thought. Yet, there was a job far from completion. The final achievement: myself.

Work in progress, I guess.

I survived an exhausting, endless winter. Been kicked on the floor by waves of failures and anxiety, that keep on coming as the spring slowly shows her face, caressing my bleeding wounds with rays of sun and a certain sense of hope.

Is there hope, though?

A book of Bukowski stares at me from a not so distant table. I’m afraid of the word. Writing. Reading. Sometimes even talking. “Words create reality,” my ex once said. She was naked. I was naked. In that instant, nothing else existed. The gray winter and the future were outside in Santiago, in Norway, in Denmark. Rotting beforehand; the carcass of what wasn’t meant to be.

“What now?” you must be wondering. That makes two of us.