I just feel like continuing, I guess that's the word for it.
With the living of my own life, that is.
I belive that the mysterious concept of falling in love also goes for where my home is chosen - I can not decide for myself on wich ground, mountain or lake my heart chooses to stay.
It's a eternal realationship of compromising, the realation with the human heart. Perhaps that's why love is something we can never be fully educated in, complete with all answers - since there is another mind that rules those decision in our own chest.
What I mean is that the city Visby, on the Swedish island Gotland is one of my dearest homes.
And yet I don't own a big pile of planks, or a great ammount of bricks on the island: it's the island it self instead that owns a piece of my heart - and it sure is furfilling to visit that part of my heart once a year at the Middle Age Week.
This where also one of the most exciting weeks ever, and I'm still colored by the dirt from the cobbled streets stuck on my feet, still bruised and tendered from God knows what, still all slowpoke-like from one weeks very much non-soberness, still with the medieval bells ringing in my ears and the bagpipes of Effes and Forum Vulgaris tingling in my veins, still with a heavy smell of waterpipe tobacco on my fingertips and still drunk of moonlight, ocean wind and the heating sun.

It was a great weak of sin,
and by that I mean the common name for all love, passion, laughter and happieness that someone can set in once mind.
But why I define sin as something holy, is another long story for another time.

Take care!