Everlasting horizons

I feel it in my blood. I hear it in the wind. I taste in in the air. A long time has passed since last hunt. I feel trappet in my own reservoir, my tomahawk is lowered, my shotgun is tired and hidden away for the winter. Now spring will come and life will rise in the wild. Two-Crows heart are calm and full of love to life and the way of the nature. Two-Crow rest a restless slumber. Awake life, awake! Soon the hunting is good, and in the month of the red leafs Two-Crows will enter the mountains, the forests and the wild. I will become wild, become one with the bear in the treelines, one with the wolf under the moon and one with the crows in the air. Couse I am Two-Crows, the one who sees it all.

I will enter the souls of my brothers and sisters and I will again hunt. Alone. always alone.

Hear me father wind! Will you send me luck and clear sight?
Hear me sister sun! Will you bow your head and hide my body?
Hear me brother winter! Will you colour the grouse white so they climb higher?
Hear me mother earth! Will you accept my gift in blood and hide my tracks?

Couse you are my family, and I will become one of you after my life has ended. Await me!

I go to work in Oslo. Probably a good city for a person who generally don't like citys. 500 000 inhabitants, not very tall buildings and little crime. My monney should go to travelling, but first I'll get married. It costs. I'm not free. I work and I'm not free. I long every day for the simple life of the tribes in africa or in the pasific. Payday macht frei in some way, but I can't buy myself free. Not totally free. I'm longing for the imperial age when somebody worked for me and all I had to do was travelling around, drunk with an elephant rifle and a jungle helmet, all dressed in caki. F*ck this civilised life of 20 years of education, loans, bills and 08:00-16:00 stressed environment of modern slavery. In matter of fact I hate this wery computer I'm writning this on. Ok need brake. Relax, breathe in, breathe out. Listen to the Waitpela gras.

Pukpuk i lukim sutman, pukpuk i bikpela. Dispela ples sucks!

me lif bagarap

There is no me in you, there is no me inside, only I. Fevernights in norway, the jungle is out there somewhere behind the threes and I'm lost in office locations. No map, no easy survival. Wild beast in suits and their helpless prays by the waterhole. This is not Marrakech, this is not Izmir or the Sahara nights. It's ordernary life, and I'm granted housearrest by the system of modern survival. Hate it. All I wanna do is go to Rarotonga and die peacefully by a coconut falling from a palm.

I miss the desert, the road, the mountains and the ocean. My longing has such a degree that I would be happy if a gypsy told me that I would die a horrible death by cannibals in Papua New Guinea. At last that would mean that I would go there. Go away from the dull daily reservoir that they (read myself) keep me in. Time to hunt the buffalo, tatanka!