THE GLASS CHILD

CHARLOTTE ERIKSSON

 

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Songwriter.  Author.  Dreamer. Wanderer.

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    Another Vagabond Lost To Love

    Berlin Stories on leaving & arriving

    –––––––––

    ​

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

    ***

    ​

    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.”

    Signed paperback in The Glass Child Store
    Help me keep doing what I do

    I’m a completely independent artist, living all by myself with no other support than yours. If you find any comfort or hope in what I do, my music or my writings, please consider supporting me, in order to be able to keep doing this. To keep learning, creating, growing and sharing what I learn. Everything matters, between a coffee to a donation for my next album. 

    I'm nothing alone ♥

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    Join & support me on Patreon

    CONTACT

    Booking & PR: lisa@brokenglassrecords.se

     

    I am currently taking bookings for solo shows, house concerts, workshops and speaking engagements.

     

    Interested in hosting a house concert? Just write to me and we'll plan it together!

     

    contact@charlotteeriksson.com

     

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    • Home

    • My Story

    • My Books

    • Store

    • House Concerts / Book Me

    • Podcast

    • Writing Tumblr

    • Workshops & Speaking

    • Selected Writings

    • VIP Fan Club

    • Reading List

    • Bio

    • Press

    • More

      Books Charlotte Eriksson.jpg
      Charlotte Eriksson Books

      5am
      again,
      drunk on someone else’s love,
      or couch,
      and I’ve never felt more at home.

      ​

      I fled myself,
      from the life I’ve built
      because I’ve been inhabiting routines I don’t want to stand for.

      Inhabiting skin I’d rather shed
      but still took on
      like a soldier serving his country,
      for that’s what they told me to do.
      But I was not
      strong
      or wise,
      but young and foolish,
      for what is this thing? Trading passions for a tiny bit of acceptance,

      and I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls
      with clean blood
      and organised drawers.
      I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests
      at night when no one else is alive,
      or awake,
      however you choose to see it,
      and I live in my own flames.
      Sometimes burning too bright and too wild
      to make things last 
      or handle
      myself or anyone else
      and so I run.
      Run run run,
      far and wide
      until my bones ache and lungs split
      and it feels good.
      Hear that, people? It feels good,
      because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
      and I wish to do with it exactly as I please,
      and living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times,

      because I never volunteered to take this on.

      The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,
      the forever on going task of explaining this and that,
      and why I don’t want to look like this and
      be like that
      but still here I am and if this is the body I’ve been given I’m sure as hell gonna make it work.
      If this is the place I’ve been given, I’m sure as hell gonna make this work.

      ​

      So I fled the me that was never really me and I’m on my way. To newer lands and uncleaned streets
      for I’ve had enough of childish safety in comfort.
      Enough of all telling me to look and do, like this and that,

      and I never meant to please anyone but myself
      and you can call me selfish,
      throw words like knives in the dark but I will not listen,
      for not listening to sharp words brought me to where I am today
      and I believe in the path I’ve been given. If my only task in this life is to walk it,
      I surely will walk it
      prouder than anyone else.

      ​

      If this is the path I’ve been given, I will walk it
      prouder than anyone else,
      for no one else can.

      ​

      // from my book You’re Doing Just Fine ☾

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      www.BrokenGlassRecords.se