Handwriting is an unknown art form

And a rarity these days with computers and iPads, mobiles and emails. No one writes anymore. Me included. Until today. I’ve always wanted to write a book. About life, all the experiences I’ve been through. About friends, travels and love and hate. My love for food, for life, for warm cinnamon buns and cold milk. For the people in my life who has contributed towards my growth, good or bad. Especially since I believe everything and everyone has a meaning or a purpose.

I started a book a long, long time ago and it’s been dormant for way too long. But for some reason, I’ve been inspired. Maybe I’ve found a need to tap into my creative side in order to find a balance between chaos and order, maybe I need to step out of my comfort zone and actually try to finish something or maybe I’m trying to escape into my imagination. About that loft in SoHo with the high ceilings, the large windows, the open plan kitchen & sparkling fireplace. The cosy sofa with the fluffy pillows, the sheepskin slippers casually placed underneath the coffee table and the bare feet peeping out from the woollen blanket which keeps me warm while big white snowflakes fall down on the empty street outside, Bing Crosby’s White Christmas in the background. See, I’m already there. In spirit. And through the many pieces of paper I wrote this evening, using a pen. I loved it, I’ll continue to do it. 

Love from Stockholm. ❤️

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