Friedhof

Planting flowers at a cemetery in Lomma, the kind of wordless communication consistent with the German word "Friedhof".

A moment later a rainstorm struck and my mother and I had to seek refuge inside the old neo-Romantic brick church. Sitting there by the white walls I once again experienced a sense of convergence.

Surprised by my own fervour, I had composed a long post on the new electronic surveillance bill which the Swedish parliament, despite massive protests, passed last week. Though definitely relevant to a wider international audience, my personal frustration had made it necessary to write in Swedish.

But back there in the church, the converging lines were all too familiar. As if the only life form I know is one of constant departure, yet of desperately holding on to something I know to be true, despite all the evidence to the contrary.