Mind over mind

Do you know the feeling when something has been bothering you for a long time – something itching underneath, that you can't quite put your mind into? Something that constantly baffles you and questions you with its very being, although you don't even know what this thing might be? It's just there, nagging at you in the back of your brain, trying to shout out loud to you but all you hear is a vague whisper; and even that whisper is so muffled you can't understand what was actually said.

Occasionally you think you found it. It's like waking up after having a revealing dream. For two seconds it's all clear. But then it starts fading away. Like someone shuts big iron doors in front of your mind and won't allow you to peak in anymore.

But it's just your own hidden thoughts. And they're there all the time, lurking in the dark places of your consciousness, always ready to make you doubt yourself over and over again. I swear to God, sometimes I even hear these thoughts silently giggling at me, mocking me, ”you can't find us! You can't find us! Stupid!”

Some weeks ago I had the most horrible nightmare I have ever had in my life. The dream itself would not be so scary if I told it here, but the sensation after I woke up was dreadful. I have never felt such fear in my entire life – it nearly stopped my blood flowing in my veins, and the only two things I could think of doing were to either paralyze or to run as fast as I can.

For some reason I feel the same way now, even though I've had no nightmares lately. I'm fully awake but I feel like running, just stepping out on the rainy streets and keep running until I collapse somewhere. I think I hope that running away would put these thoughts in my head to silence. But you can't run away from your own mind, can you? It will follow. Or if it's smart enough, it will be one step ahead, just to show you that it can never be forgotten.

Tonight I can perhaps trick my mind, take a different corner, venture to streets I haven't been to yet. And then I will catch it, that stupid, ignorant mind of mine that giggles at me in the dark, and give it a proper punch in the face and say: ”get back to work you slacker!”

But then, it can always promise to be nice at me, and the next day it doesn't even show up – just stays there in the corner, silently despising me, and calls off sick just when I need it the most.

Something to believe in

My all-time most hated feeling in this world must be disappointment. Hatred, fear and grief can be considered as negative feelings also, but somehow handling these emotions is a lot more easier. To me, these feelings are somehow more pure and more simple to comprehend. You're allowed to act like you feel – you can fume and rage, stomp your feet on the ground, bash your head on the wall. You can be sad and cry, be miserable, listen to sad songs and dwell in the melancholy. But disappointment is the unwanted child of expectations. And I sure have a lot of those. Thus, they are occasionally getting really horny and breeding with no control whatsoever.

When I'm disappointed I suddenly don't know how to handle it. In my case, disappointment often merges with frustration, thus creating this unbearable mix of all emotions at once, and I quite sincerely seem to have no idea how to handle either one of these sensations in a very constructive way. Disillusionment is a consuming state of mind, especially if you seem to hit a series of disappointing events in your life. I myself am beginning to be so used to feeling unsatisfied that it takes a while for me to remember how it used to be when I wasn't absolutely scared to death of everything I was looking forward to.



Being disappointed is like shaking a soda bottle really hard, without ever actually opening it. All the murky, gloomy thoughts are sizzling inside frantically but there's no way they can get out. Until, of course, you shake a little too much. And then that cork just pops out, and the goddamn soda is all over the walls, it just showers away in every direction, smears your clothes and gets stuck in the furniture. And it takes a long time to clean that shit up.

What is enough then? How can you tell? I sure can't. I'm a bit of a yo-yo myself. I can reach my limit, and then miraculously pull myself back together again and keep wishing something good will happen, no matter what. I don't know if it ever will, but I'm not known to be a quitter either. To me, faith is the most beautiful thing life has to offer. And I don't mean faith in the religious sense: rather, I appreciate faith at its most beautiful, when you just refuse to believe that tomorrow would be any worse than today. If I'm still able to believe in things, I know I'm still alive. It doesn't really matter how tiny the actual chance of having your dreams come true is – as long as you belive you're worth it, this life is worth living.

Reveal your secrets

I heard that Sigmund Freud thought that the things people hate most fiercely are in fact the things that they long for, but they feel like they shouldn't achieve. (Feel free to correct if I'm wrong.)

I'm not a huge fan of Freud, for starters. Whenever I think of him I remember this book of interpreting dreams that my parents had when I was a kid. Half of the explanations given were Freudian, thus making nearly all objects on this planet somehow sexual. Just fallos after fallos after fallos.

But there's something curious about that allegation. First, of course, I started thinking: Ha! If that would be true, it would prove my point about radical homophobics – that they are in fact having some desires towards the same sex themselves.

Then it occurred to me that if this allegation really was true, it would work on me too. So, whatever things or ideas I loathe, I actually long for in secret. My goodness! Quite an upsetting thought. I quickly tried to erase this inner conversation from my head. But it refused to stop. My darling brain kept on thinking, while the other part of me was yelling, ”don't do it!”

The thing that came to my mind was racism. It has been the favourite topic of all discussion forums I have looked into lately. Surely, I also have a very strong opinion about racism and tolerance; to put it simply, I fiercely dislike any form of racism and people who to me seem racist. Well... I'm sure a lot of people think alike. Racism is a bad thing and nobody in their right mind would ever admit openly that they're racists. I am certainly not one!

Or could I be? Could I be a little bit racist, secretly? Could I have denied these thoughts that I have, blissfully tossing them aside and make-believe that I am totally tolerant?! Yes, I could. And I have been.

I can easily distinguish half a dozen quite strong prejudices that I have about people with certain ethnic or religious background. In an open conversation with other people I defend these people; but in the inner conversation that I'm having with myself I reluctantly admit that I am biased and covered with preconceptions. I also react to these prejudices in real life, by taking certain actions – change the side of the road, refuse to speak to a certain person because ”I know what they're like and what they think of me.” Just for an example. And as much as I try to deny it, I can't escape the fact that I have some truly racist thoughts.

I still don't consider myself as a racist, however. Hypocrisy, you say? Yes, maybe. But I like to keep this more idealistic view about myself, and thus call myself an ”acknowledged paranoid” instead. The reason for this is that to me a racist doesn't even have this inner conversation; doesn't have the shame or the guilt that these thoughts bring up. There's no controversy, no arguments – it's just one black-and-white (pun intended) thought.

I also think that as long as the majority of people don't admit the facts of who they really are and what they really are to themselves, there's no remedy for today's multinational societies. And so will the political and societal conversation remain crippled. Before getting some help, one must always admit that there even is a problem. I can openly admit it.

Tolerance as a word to me seems to be a huge one; it consists of so many things, and it beholds certain paradigms that sometimes seem almost inhuman and god-like. Well I'm no god, nor I wish to be one. I can recognize these less pleasant thoughts that I have, and then I can only do my best to practice what I preach: treat each person as an individual, rather than gluing them into a certain frame of reference.

My mission of becoming a good person continues, although I fear this goal will never be achieved.

Oh, joy

When was the last time you were happy? Do you remember the moment, did you recognize the emotion?

I started thinking about happiness last weekend – what it consists of, and how can you actually tell you're happy. I've had several truly unfeigned moments of happiness over the past few months. The actual moments were just fleeting instants, but they managed to linger for days.

I guess that my definition of happiness is pretty much feeling content. It's not a continuous exhilarating nirvana, like the movies want us to believe. Rather, it's a smooth, steady emotion, when yesterday has no weight, tomorrow is nothing to be concerned about, and today is all you need. But is this feeling even recognizeable unless you have something to compare it with: slight sadness, anger, fear, even misery to balance it out with?

No, I'm pretty sure that one does not exist without the other. The irritating thing is of course, that you can usually easily recall all of those dark unhappy moments rather than the good and joyous ones. Maybe it's some form of evolution. Mistakes, mishaps, failures and errors in general ultimately make us learn. They are the true tests of character: can I handle this or will it break me? If not, will it change me, and if so, into what?

I gather that both states of mind are equally important. The challenging feeling of discontent, that forces you to change your life or yourself in some way. And then, the moments of bliss and delight that seem to exist only for us to unabashedly enjoy them. And most importantly – these moments of delight make us hungry for more, thus making this life worth living. Sadly, there are of course no shortcuts, magic tricks or de-tours to achieve happy moments. Sometimes they just come around the corner and surprise you. And sometimes they just run away screaming to the opposite direction.

Some people think it's impossible to be happy if you really want to be happy; that it only comes to you if you sit still and wait it out. I don't think so. I think occasionally all you have to do is hunt those moments down, make an effort, and open your eyes to the minor delights life has to offer. Maybe in a while then – if you're patient – true happiness will come to you like a tamed wild animal. Or perhaps you just have to keep hunting. I have sharpened my arrows, now I just have to lure it in close enough so I can catch it. I can only hope my timing is right.

And in case you wondered, I would never shoot happiness with a plain arrow. I always use the sedated ones. That way it can always get back up on its feet and run away so I can catch it again. Or maybe one day, it sees that I truly mean no harm to it, and it will get closer and closer to me, and stay with me forever.

Tell me a story...

Writing is my little mistress. It's the thing I always return to after something has upset me. I believe that the more dissonances I have in my life, the more and the better I manage to write. So: in order for me to keep up my writing skills, I should be a little bit stressed all the time.



Every now and then words become my world. When nothing else seems to work, words always work for me. I can twist and turn them, toss them and turn them, let them come out just as they please, play with them. Unlike numbers that I've always fiercely hated, letters, words and sentences have always intrigued me. The fact that you have to use each word like a delicate, subtle tool to work your way through to other people's minds. How easily one word can save the world or ruin it.It's a great power that words, languages and writing hold within them.

My relation with writing started at an early age. When I was a kid I used to write an unofficial newspaper for my school. Consequently I made up all the stories (I thought it would be more exciting that way). Obviously I didn't care too much about journalist's ethics at that time. But ever since then my big dream was to become a reporter. As years passed it became clearer that I'd specifically want to become an investigative journalist. I took creative writing lessons in high school; had a course about screen writing; even tried to study journalism in an open university in Finland. But like many of the dreams I've had, this one was forgotten before long also. I noticed that no matter how much I loved to write, I completely lacked the motivation to study anything specific related to it.



Later on I've thought a lot about those decisions to quit and wondered whether those were good choices after all. Oh, to win a Pulitzer... Or to write an amazing screen play that people will praise! Now wouldn't that have been something? But in reality I think that rather than winning prizes or people over, I would be either writing obituaries for some small local newspaper, or screen plays for kids after-school theatre lessons.

Now I think that rather than an ambition, writing is more like a companion to me. I might forget about it for a while – days, weeks, sometimes even months – but when I discover it again, it's like nothing ever happened between us. Writing is my therapist. A free one, but also a cruel one: it never really tells me if I'm starting to do better or not. It just comes and goes as it wishes, giving me these brief moments of comfort.



And the real reason I never became any kind of writer is the sheer fear of mediocrity. Is there really anything scarier than being average at something you feel so passionately about? So to avoid this disappointment I've chosen the coward's way. Blogs, diary, just writing for my own pleasure, when there's no fear of actual judgment. Meanwhile I of course dream about writing a beautiful article, or a genius screen play, or perhaps a collection of short stories... Maybe one day.

My word is my sword, but I don't have a shield to protect me from it.

Alien Nation

This year I have pretty much failed in everything I have attempted to do. Work issues, relationships, everything in between – one at a time, they all fell apart. So lately I have spent a lot of time thinking what do I expect from the future. What do I want to try now? What do I even dare to try?

The days at work go by slowly, there's really not that much to do. I try to spend my time by reading all possible newspapers I can come up with, and just browsing through random Finnish websites. At the same time I'm trying to figure out what to do next. Do I stay here? Should I try some other country even, or perhaps a new job and apartment? A change of scenery would be great. How about Finland then, why shouldn't I return now, when everything is slowly crumbling down? At least I'd have some prospects there. And my culture.

I suppose it's because Finland, as a country, was one of the biggest reasons for me to move out in the first place. I can't say I moved here because I wanted to live in Portugal: shit, the only thing I knew about this country 2,5 years ago was that it's located next to Spain. I think that for my whole life I've been trying to figure out the Finnish culture – what does an average Finn dream of, how do they think, what are their ambitions? My research down here from Portugal is quite strictly tied to internet nowadays. Blogs, newspapers, discussion forums. And every time I browse through these sites I feel extremely distant. Sure, there is a distance between me and Finland, quite specifically 3366 kilometers. But the distance I feel is much more mental than physical. Sometimes, while reading an article or column, I get this primitive reaction. A bit like you place your hand on a hot stove – you automatically pull your hand back.

It takes a little while for me to understand what I'm really feeling every time. I simply feel like I'm a complete outsider. I don't belong there, I never did. The feeling of alienation is strong, and it was strong while I still lived in Finland. I always felt like the total oddball, the uncool, neurotic hill-billy. In Portugal I'm an alien too, but in a different sense, and because I want it. In a way it's a huge relief to realize that I will never be or become Portuguese, just starting with my hair and skin color... I can't quite decide where or when I started to lose touch with my own country. My best friends are Finnish, and of course my family, and my cultural background, in which I do still relate to at times. But for me it's comfortable to live in this mentally no-mans land. All cultural expectations and pressure from the society have finally subsided. They seem so far away I can hardly remember what they are – safe for when I get lost on the wrong website or discussion board.

Surely I'm not free here either. I'm bound to some strict prejudices, and I have to accept the fact that I have to diminish them each time I meet a new person. It always starts from zero. My pure new life is not quite so stainless anymore, Lisbon is no more unconquered and pristine. I have already smudged it with my bad experiences and mistakes. The novelty is gone, the exoticism has faded. But the most important feeling of all has remained: that here I can be exactly who I truly am. And as long as I have this feeling, I don't see myself moving anywhere. With my Finnish sisu, I will survive here, even when all odds are against me. What the hell – the best way of beating odds is to become one of them, and that I believe I have achieved here.