• Charlotte Eriksson

i will be a writer now ...


Someone once said, “Get your heart real good broken and you’ll be a poet for the rest of your life”.  I don’t actually know if someone ever said this but I hope someone did ‘cause I would like to hear it. I would like to know that this pain will last for good reasons and that my words will come back through it, ‘cause I’ve been dry on words like a prayer in the desert, no life or sign of spark. I’ve lived so nicely, so slowly, making my way towards something I never really knew what, but it was so nice, to slow down. To not flee, just stay. A quiet living. A quiet street. I have lived so nicely.


I expected a catastrophic chaos in all kinds of awful, but my heart is strangely quiet.

There is a quiet peace even in the loudness of a heart breaking. There is a strange sense of acceptance, like nodding my head, to myself, saying, it’s alright, it’s alright, you’re doing fine. Maybe I’m just older. Been here before, know my way out. Maybe it’s quietly dying, sometimes I feel like I am, either way, how does ‘alive’ feel? But I know I can’t go back, only forward, no use in fighting, so onwards I go, a little every day, and I do the best I can.


It comes in waves, mostly at night. Dreams and memories resurfacing and I wake up cold and tired, lonely in a vast sea of sadness. how can the lack of someone feel so large? how can the lack of someone feel so heavy? it’s December and the early evenings are so dark.


My brain jumps in and out, hopeful to devastated. I’m crying but I’m so so happy. I’m sorry, but I’m so grateful. For the lessons. For the growth. 

I should have focused on being a writer. I used to write quite well, I think? I had a lot to say, a lot to think about. I think a lot of people could relate. I got letters and gifts back then, people saying “thank you”. I should have kept to my words, kept writing to people and for people and maybe I could have been someone for someone. You know, one of those you turn to when you’re in pain.

But i’m back again, feeling things, staying up with the moon listening to the same old songs, like back then, when i wrote, all the time, saying things, reaching out. Maybe I can be someone now, for someone. Maybe I can write myself out of this one too, like I’ve done so many times. Write my way out of it.


I will be a writer now. I will say it all.




Some more of my writings ...

"I'm trying, as I always will"

"I am not a broken heart"

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. 

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

 

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contact@charlotteeriksson.com

 

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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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