The Return of the Ghost

I guess the first time I can blame unclear time schedules. This time I cut it down but deliberately kept four hours. I’ve come to enjoy the hours just after something intense, but before you are back in reality, as some kind of meditation. The Ease-out-of-the-bubble-effect.

This post goes out to those girls in that car that one time.

The cafeteria is as calm and empty as last time. Just hearing the rare Pling sound from the counter makes me smile.

The soup is off the menu, instead there is pie. Other than that, everything is exactly the same. I’m already on my second freshly pressed orange juice.

When I first sat down, I read through my notes from last year — and yes: I’m very much in the same state as that time. The bubble is a very real thing and I’m once again leaving it.

Almost a double life, of sorts. I’ve always been sure of my introvertism. I got it on paper and everything. Psychologist-approved INTP.

But that test was taken outside of the bubble.

Yes, I do on a regular basis function as an introvert.
Yes, my energy is refilled by solitude and me-time.
Yes, people time drain that same energy.

But then I take into account days like this. This time it happens to be Åre, with people everywhere around me (ironic, I know, since there is a lot less people here per square km).

I find myself in a strongly extroverted state — with a behavioural pattern that optimizes the amount of time I spend around people, and a WPM count that would impress a decent small town rapper.

How it happens? No idea.

The bubble somehow makes me extroverted. But that makes very little sense. So, in the paraphrased words of one of those girls in that car that one time: maybe I’m simply an extrovert that happens to hang around the wrong people most of my life.

No offence, people that I spend 90% of my time with.

To be honest, the words for my behavioural patterns probably doesn’t matter much. What matters is that I should be good at noticing when certain people brings out my social side. And keep them around. Because I can safely say I prefer that side.

I may or may not have improved my climbing skills during this weekend. It doesn’t matter much either. We all knew I didn’t go purely for climbing. In fact, climbing probably had very little to do with it.

But I gained other things.

I will never forget the last name Jägerström. Or the slow horse that rhymed with seagull.
I will never again trust people that say ”lets walk!” instead of going by car.
I will remember the snow that looks like a claw.
I will remember the importance of using the right word form for ”you”.
I will bring with me a somewhat unfinished fake story about a lighthouse.

And if I ever need someone to count 15 seconds for me, I know exactly who not to call.

Thank you, those girls in that car that one time, and a whole bunch of other people.

Also, since you asked for a poem of sorts, here goes:

When the fading of memories slowly takes off
and day-to-day feels like a cheap little knockoff
Think back to the trees and glance up at the sun
I can never decide why I don’t leave this town