Frontstage

I'm frontstage again.
I got a new job in a new town and moved away from beloved Gothenburg.
The colleagues are really nice.
And I have two new phone numbers to two new friends from my temporary lodgings where I stayed a total of 10 nights. Not too badly done.
The woman who lived in my new flat gave me tulips for a house warming gift.

All in all, not bad.
And the town is nice, really, it is.
And the work is interesting (what on earth are you doing blogging now).

But it's frontstage. All the time.
Which exhausts me.
And when I get home to the large flat with no furniture and too few lamps and an inflatable bed for a bed, I can't really keep the tears from coming.

Even though
there's nothing wrong with me
or any reason, truly, to feel sorry for me.

(I miss music).

Frontstage is, simply, straining.

"i want my old friends
i want my old face
i want my old mind
fuck this time and place"