Another Vagabond Lost To Love

Berlin Stories on leaving & arriving

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A young writer’s search for a place called home, what it means to be an artist, and finding peace with a restless heart. 

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Travel journals and poetry from a year in Berlin, where I somehow ended up. The broken concrete, conversations with strangers, small moments of ache or clarity. The dreamer’s fate of leaving and arriving, love, loss, and learning to go on on your own.

Another Vagabond Lost To Love is Charlotte Eriksson’s 2nd book, 

published by Broken Glass Records.

Read all the most popular parts, poems and quotes from the book on Goodreads.

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,
and I still don’t know which month it was then
or what day it is now.
I replace cafés with crowded bars and empty roads with broken bottles
and this town is healing me slowly but still not slow or fast enough

because there’s no right way

to do this.
There is no right way to do this.

I have rooted myself into this quiet place where I don’t need much to get by. I need my visions. I need my books. I need new thoughts and lessons, from older souls, bars, whisky, libraries; different ones in different towns. I need my music. I need my songs. I need the safety of somewhere to rest my head at night, when my eyes get heavy. And I need space. Lots of space. To run, and sing, and change around in any way I please—outer or inner—and I need to love. I need the space to love ideas and thoughts; creations and people—anywhere I can find—and I need the peace of mind to understand it.

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It’s the beating of my heart.

  The way I lie awake, playing with shadows slowly climbing up my wall. The gentle moonlight slipping through my window and the sound of a lonely car somewhere far away, where I long to be, too, I think. It’s the way I thought my restless wandering was over, that I’d found whatever I thought I had found, or wanted, or needed, and I started to collect my belongings. Build a home. Safe behind the comfort of these four walls and a closed door.

  Because as much as I tried or pretended or imagined myself as a part of all the people out there,

I was still the one locking the door every night.

Turning off the phone and blowing out the candles so no one knew I was home.

  ’cause I was never really well around the expectations of my personality

and I wanted to keep to myself.

  and because I haven’t been very impressed lately.

     By people,

        or places.

Or the way someone said he loved me and then slowly changed his mind.

Charlotte Eriksson quotes
Another Vagabond Lost To Love Charlotte Eriksson

Am I making something worth while?

I’m not sure.

I write and I sing and I hear words from time to time about my life and choices making ways, into other lives, other hearts,

but am I making something worth while?

I’m not sure.

 

There was a boy last night who I never spoke to because I was too drunk and still shy, but mostly lonely, and I couldn’t find anything lightly to say,

so I simply walked away

but still wondered what he did with his life

because he didn’t even speak to me

or look at me

but still made me wonder who he was

and I walked away asking

Am I making something worth while?

I am not sure.

I am a complicated person with a simple life

and I am the reason for everything that ever happened to me.

Charlotte Eriksson Another Vagabond Lost To Love

this is for us.

This is for us who sing, write, dance, act, study, run and love

and this is for doing it even if no one will ever know

because the beauty is in the act of doing it.

Not in what it can lead to.

This is for the times I lose myself while writing, singing, playing

and no one is around and they will never know

but I will forever remember

and that shines brighter than any praise or fame or glory I will ever have,

and this is for you who write or play or read or sing

by yourself with the light off and door closed

when the world is asleep and the stars are aligned

and maybe no one will ever hear it

or read your words

or know your thoughts

but it doesn’t make it less noble.

It makes it ethereal. Mysterious.

Infinite.

For it belongs to you and whatever God or spirit you believe in

and only you can decide how much it meant

and means

and will forever mean

and other people will experience it too

through you.

Through your spirit. Through the way you talk.

Through the way you walk and love and laugh and care

and I never meant to write this long

but what I want to say is:

Don’t try to present your art by making other people read or hear or see or touch it: make them feel it. Wear your art like your heart on your sleeve and keep it alive by making people feel a little better. Feel a little lighter. Create art in order for yourself to become yourself

and let your very existence be your song, your poem, your story.

Let your very identity be your book.

Let the way people say your name sound like the sweetest melody.

 

So go create. Take photographs in the woods, run alone in the rain and sing your heart out high up on a mountain

where no one will ever hear

and your very existence will be the most hypnotising scar.

Make your life be your art

and you will never be forgotten.

Charlotte Eriksson books

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,
and I still don’t know which month it was then
or what day it is now.
Blurred out lines
from hangovers 
to coffee
Another vagabond 
lost to love.

4am alone and on my way.
These are my finest moments.
I scrub my skin
to rid me from 
you
and I still don’t know why I cried.
It was just something in the way you took my heart and rearranged my insides and I couldn’t recognise the emptiness you left me with when you were done. Maybe you thought my insides would fit better this way, look better this way, to you and us and all the rest.
But then you must have changed your mind
or made a wrong
because why did you
leave?

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,
and I still don’t know which month it was then
or what day it is now.
I replace cafés with crowded bars and empty roads with broken bottles
and this town is healing me slowly but still not slow or fast enough because there’s no right way to do this.
There is no right way to do this.

There is no right way to do this.

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“I am running and singing and when it’s raining I’m the only one left on the open street, smiling with my eyes fixed on the sky because it’s cleaning me. I’m the one on the other side of the party, hearing laughter and the emptying of bottles while I peacefully make my way to the river, a lonely road, following the smell of the ocean. I’m the one waking up at 4am to witness the sunrise, where the sky touches the sea, and I hold my elbows, grasping tight to whatever I’ve made of myself.”