Helsingborg

Through the train window, I look out over the frozen beach promenade. Moments later, the sea disappears, and the train continues its familiar climb into Pålsjö skog. For a long time, this was the epicentre of my dreams – a site of permanence and solace. In its steep beech forests, much of what once mattered has passed.

Things that would have been sufficient had my life been a novel. But it is not. And to try to reduce it to one would be simply tragic. Instead, it should be painfully clear that the narration is open-ended, and that we alone are responsible for continuing to fill the pages.