Risker kan leda till så bra saker, men det kan också förändra allt som ens värld tidigare bestått av.
Vågar du riskera konsekvenserna av en risktagning?

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Hur tar man sig upp efter att ha fallit? När jag ser mig om och ser efter det som en gång brukade finnas där ser jag ingenting. Det har gått förlorat och jag vet inte hur jag ska få tillbaka det. Han gick utan ett ord. När jag tänker på honom ser jag bara hans ryggtavla som långsamt blir mindre och mindre. Hans blekblonda tovor som blir allt otydligare. När jag läser något fascinerande i tidningen och ser upp för att berätta det för dig är du inte där. Stolen står tom.

Dina saker lämnade du kvar. Allt du ägde finns kvar här, och det gör mig så arg. Varenda strumpa som du använt under livet tillsammans med mig lämnade du kvar i byrån som står framför fönstret. Som om jag inte betydde något alls för dig. Och dina böcker. Dina älskade böcker som du omsorgsfullt vårdade och läste när mörkret började falla står kvar på hyllorna. Dammiga. Döda.

Det är höst. Löven faller från träden likt glittrande konfetti under avslutningen på en gala. I glittret speglas lyckliga ansikten.

Men här finns det inget att fira, för jag har förlorat den jag älskar.

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Detta är ringen jag pratade om tidigare! Den är från Gina Tricot och kostade 129 kr.

Vad jag förstått så är inte jag den enda som länge gillat detta med många ringar på fingrarna. Dock har jag inte fått någon bra möjlighet att bygga upp någon samling. Men igår slog jag till på en fin bjässe som jag ska visa senare, när batteriet till kameran laddat klart!

Bilder

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Visst är det otroligt tråkigt när man inte vet vad man ska hitta på? Men jag har mina speciella saker som jag brukar hitta på när jag känner att musten börjar sugas ur mig.

1. Baka! Det är alltid roligt att sätta igång och leta recept, ta fram ingredienserna och försöka att inte få ett äggskal att hamna i skålen när man knäcker äggen. Sedan att få se ens små bakverk växa i ugnen, det slutar aldrig att fascinera mig.

2. Läsa en bok! Vad är inte roligt med att försvinna in i en annan värld, läsa om andras kärleksproblem, tvister, krig och få slippa tänka på sitt eget för en stund?

3. Städa! Kan vara en aning tråkigt MEN! Och detta är ett stort "men" - DET DÖDAR TID! Och resultatet sen, känslan av att man har gjort något riktigt bra. Den är underbar och den lever jag på ett bra tag.

4. Läsa bloggar! Inspirationen man får från bilder, texter, ord och till och till och med känslan av att man inte är ensam med att tycka, tänka och känna på ett visst vis. Det finns så mycket att hämta från dem. Och man kan ju läsa om vad man vill nu för tiden, vilken ögonskugga man ska välja i vår, tre saker man inte ska säga vid första mötet med en ny människa, vilken sexleksak som ger starkast orgasmer eller vilka låtar som är roligast att dansa till?

5. Måla naglarna! Ibland måste man ju få vara lite girly...

6. Se på SATC! Var ska jag börja? Egentligen talar denna punkten ganska mycket för sig själv. Serien är lång, varför inte se hur många avsnitt man orkar plöja igenom på en dag?

Min craving just nu, och så har jag det inte ens hemma! Eftersom jag aldrig varit i Japan har jag heller inte haft möjlighet att äta riktiga nudlar på en restaurang eller något, men min favorit här hemma är utan tvekan Samyang ramen med chicken flavor! Mumma!

Nu ska jag slå mig ner och titta lite på SATC. Jag har som väldigt många andra blivit förälskad i denna serien och nu när jag fått boxen kan jag fortsätta med mina tvångstankar att se den om och om igen. Ciao!

Acnes enkelhet är något alldeles extra.

Detta tilltalar mig just nu. Jag vill ut, ha galet roligt bara leva i nuet! Om det går som planerat (*håller tummarna*) så kommer detta uppfyllas på fredag! Wish my luck some luck!

Nu är den nya designen som jag pratade om tidigare uppe för bruk! Den är ganska lik den gamla designen, men samtidigt inte. Den är lite mer blygsam och skriker inte efter uppmärksamhet som den innan.

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Just nu är det inte så mycket som händer här, men håller på med en ny design som jag hoppas kommer in här inom kort!