The [one] voice in my head: “Have you had this feeling before as well? You open your eyes, one eye, actually, barely, just a tiny little bit, slowly, a slit only wide enough to let a few beams of light fall onto your iris, trying to focus on the blurry shapes at the wall next to you, your breath going slowly, very slowly, the view getting sharper, colorful blurs morphing into more and more sharply cut shapes, lines actually, dark black lines drawn with a big pen on a white wall, neatly aligned, in blocks of 4 verticals with a diagonal line crossing above. Your mind slowly remembers: your counting. Counting the days there. Counting how much longer it will last. You’re weak. Any energy left has gone already. Days ago. Left your body through every pore. Fleeing. Escaping. Draining one drop after the other into the mattress on which you lie and onto the floor where it is forming a little puddle in the meantime. To remember you how weak you can be. In moments like this. Powerless. Tired. The sun barely has left her zenith, fires sunbeams and sunburn down at you. Merciless. But you lie there. Helpless. Motionless. Surrendering to your fate. Too exhausted to escape the Maverick-like wave that came after you, trying to crush you onto the beach, flipping you over and whirling you around under water. Too exhausted to keep the guy strapped to you with the parachute from throwing you out of the little airplane. Kicking you out with a yell into the void underneath you and into the roaring wind that hits your ears once you start feeling the drag of gravity pulling at you, accelerating you for a few seconds that feel like eternity towards the vast hard plain below that threatens to swallow you. Just like a sugar cube irrevocably disappears in the black of a cup of coffee. Just that it would hurt more if there wasn’t the sudden pull up of the parachute as it opens. Too weak to even follow with your eyes the yellow little ball that cuts through the air with a hissing sound and hits the white line dissecting the desert red ash into neat rectangular segments, hits this line exactly in the middle before you can even consider to throw yourself or your racket into its direction, trying to revert its flight back to where it came from. Too weak to even hit the break as you speed down the hill on the bike, the wind around your head, your hair styling gone, tears in your eyes and flies in your mouth. Too exhausted even to carry your Macbook Air over to the shady area under the palm tree, or open it, or log on and see what turf wars are going on in your corporate email inbox. Simply too lazy. So you put all your will together, all your strength remaining, all your former determination or what’s left of it. All the experience gained over the years on how to overcome desperate situations and you try to grab it, lean over hard to one side, reach over to the Virgin Margharita next to you. And finally, with a content smile on your face which is as wide that it could teach humbleness to a 50’s Cadillac Eldorado radiator grille, you get hold of it and take a deep, long sip… Ahhhh…”

vacationThe other voice in my head: “Björn, stop day-dreaming and being pathetic again. It’s called “vacation”. Can you make yourself useful and hand me the sun lotion, please? …”