# Flödesskrivande
Author: viktorpetersson

He was sitting on the bus, alone. As always. Every journey always followed the same routine as the others. He got on the old, cheap bus, he sat down and he stared out the window. The streetlights were shining gloomily with a soft light, and the few people he could see from the now moving bus’ windows were old. Why was everyone always old? Couldn’t they just be happy friendly people that could reassure him that he was on the right path?

The right path was something he had been looking for his entire life but never travelled along. Every time he got close it seemed like something, or someone, ruined it for him and hid it again, somewhere were he did not even dare to look for it. From the tropical forests of Thailand and the rusty English of the Thais, to the party ravaged beaches of Mallorca, Magaluf and from there to the kids laughter at his elementary school and now to the college scene of Santa Barbara, where he thrived like a fish in water. But there was always something inside of him that told him: “_No. You are not happy. You do not deserve to be happy. You shall be lost, and never find your way back. Enjoy the darkness.”_ And then he did. He enjoyed the darkness to the extent that he became a part of it and could not see the light in the world. There had to be a very special person to bring him out of the darkness, but when that person left his side he fell back into it, helpless versus the evil circle that controlled his life. The bus made a sharp turn and his computer almost fell over. God, why did he always feel like this? Miserable, lonely, _worthless._ He knew he wasn’t worthless, miserable or lonely. His life was rich of experiences, friends and love but he could not accept that those things were for him, that he deserved it.

The bus was almost empty, and there were no other sounds than the sound of the road and the clicks of his computers keyboard. Why did he even write? It wasn’t like he would be famous, or even complete a whole piece to his liking. So what was it that kept him going, that made him push through the bizarre state he always entered when he felt unloved? Was it the epic quest for the one true love that spurred him onwards in his pathetic conquests? Or was it simply the desperate need for love that made him go somewhere where he could find it?

The writing was because it made him feel like God. To control someone’s life like you wish you could control your own is a powerful feeling, a feeling to which he had become addicted. To all of you that haven’t tried it yet, I suggest you do.

The bus worked its way up through the mountains in the pitch-black night. He couldn’t see anything through the window anymore, just the pale reflection of his face lit up by the computer screen. He looked ghostly, almost outer worldly and he stopped looking. No good could come from it anyway.

## Comment 1
Author: parsley

Jag är tyvärr inte tillräckligt säker på engelska för att ge respons på texter skrivna på engelska. / Parsley, sajtvärd

## Comment 2
Author: viktorpetersson

#1 Tänkte mest bara lägga upp lite utdrag här så jag har att titta tillbaka på, men tack för omtanken och tiden du ändå tog att kommentera! :)