1. After all these implements and texts designed by intellects.

I have collected postcards my whole life.
I always took them, wherever I could find them.
Those who where for free, that is.
Every time I went to a bar, a resturang,a coffeshop or a boutique,
I would just go and pick one of every kind.
The nice ones of course.
Sometimes I took two, three of the same kind.
I would put them in a box in my room waiting for something to make out of them.
I always thought it would come to me.
Maybe I´d make them into a wall when I would go off and find my own place.

Somehow that day took longer to get to than that I had imagined as a confused,
bitter but lively 12-year old.
It was'nt something I would go on and on thinking about all day long, I mean, it was a simple collection of free, advertising postcards I just did'nt threw away, like normal pepole with sense do.

I kept them.
And I secretly loved them.

Sometimes I would take them all out and place them systematicly on the livingroomfloor.
It was the only room in the house that had a big enough floor for them all to fit.
It took hours to take them all out.
When I finally finished they had completely covered the whole floor of the room, and even some of the hallway and bedroom-floor.
They were an army of postcards.

2. So vexed to find evidently there's still so much that hides.
The army of postcards quickly surrendered when my mother came home and went ballistic about having started a letterwar without her permission.
Since that day they had been waiting silently in my drawer.
Waiting for their next battle to be won.
And I continued to collect them.
By the time I turned seventeen and a half, I hade fivehundred and eighty-nine postcards.
I would save everything though.
I would keep movietickets, traintickets, written little notes from friends,
I had even saved my first bus-ticket.
And so came the day I cleaned my room. And all of those things went sailing towards the trashcan.
In the darkest part of the desk I found my eraser from junior-high.
It was the biggest eraser I'd ever seen. And from what I'd remember, at that time it was at least twice as big. It filled my entire hand.

As I held that ridiculsy big eraser in my hand,
it started to weight more and more.
It weight ridiculsy much.
Soon it had becomed so heavy that my arm started to hurt. It had'nt grown in any way, and it was still torn and kind of sawed in half. But I started to remember what I´d felt all those years, that eternity of akwardness, lonlyness and growth-pain.
I looked at it for a long while. I stared right in to it's rubbery soul. It's pencil-pierced insides.
And I could´nt feel anything but pure hate.
Even though I´d remebered that that boy had touched it.
He was fascinated with my big eraser.
It was the only thing I was famous for when I was thirteen.


The big eraser was my history. My junior-high history. Those three years, those most miserable three years of my life. All my anxious feelings and all of my hate was compressed into one, very big, very heavy and very torn eraser.
And my hand could'nt hold on to it much longer.
My fingers had grown stiff from trying to break it.
So I looked at it one last time. Stared.
I bit my lip and smiled.
And then I threw it at the trashcan.
In my mind I was in a movie, my character had just had a major breakthru in her development and would throw that big, weird-smelling eraser perfectly into the trashcan.
It missed. Of course.
A bit unconfortable with the re-take of my life, I stepped foward and picked it up.
I smiled again. And threw it perfectly into the trashcan.
First time never counts anyway.

By this time the postcards where getting angry about being ignored.
So I picked them up from the floor in my messy bedroom and started organizing them.
Counting them. Fivehundred eighty-nine postcards in my hands. Dusty and white from erasers.
But there was something odd about them still.
They where uwritten.