I'm stupefied by your blindness. You bewilder me with your wit. Whenever you refer to yourself, which is often, you say:
- I'm a complex person.
As if that would be the excuse for everything, like neglecting the dog and picking your nose in public.
Your complexity: you haven't read a newspaper in months. You're the number one star in the next-to-secret Bio-Cure Project at Karolinska Institutet, Stockholm, Sweden and lift a hefty salary but you still do your shopping at City Gross and Willy's just before closing time. The wee hours you spend on the floor, knitting blankets for the Red Cross, the dog locked up in the adjacent room, lest he steals the ball of yarn. We've told you about the Red Cross Sweden but you don't seem to mind. The blankets are acrylic. Hygienic but not too comfortable under a blistering sun somewhere distant, somwhere where there are real problems – you wouldn't even have heard of Haiti.
Your walks lead you to untold places. Shafts and bridges, construction sites. We've told you to get a mobile phone with a GPS in it. Pointless to call us in the middle of the night: ”Where am I?”. Wherever you are, you're probably trespassing.
There is this air of innocense about you, a just-out-of-Oxbridge feeling, savage brilliance coupled with juvenile tunnel vision. It lets you get away with everything, although you are nearing fifty.
There are many of us who share your bed. A circle of people who know just how often you wash your bed linen. That your feet stink. That you'll abandon us no later than two o'clock, carrying the ball of acrylic like a charm. I don't know about the others and I don't know what these words mean but I love you.
(Utmaning: skriv om att förvirra)