When I dream of Stockholm...


    ...I wake up early for a Saturday, around 8.30, in my own apartment and I’m not the tiniest bit hungover. My bed has white or beige linens and they’re crisp as if I just put them on the night before. Next to me, on the nightstand, is a glass of water, a Glossier balm.com, a beautiful designer lamp, a book that not only is a good read, but has a pretty cover. Maybe there’s even one of those vases that only fit one flower. I drink the water. It’s ice cold even though it’s been in room temperature for over 8 hours.
    The wooden floors are in a light shade and I walk across it into my kitchen. There I take out coffee (which I keep in a metal box because it enhances the taste) and brew it in one of those fast brewers that my parents have. The room fills up with the sweet taste of pitch black, Swedish coffee. It’s lovely. I prepare breakfast; avocados (perfectly ripe, but do I even have to mention that?), two fried eggs, freshly squeezed orange juice because I always keep it in my fridge. Maybe I’m in the mood for a cinnamon bun for dessert and add it to my breakfast tray. I keep fresh ones in my cabinet, just to be safe.
    I eat on my couch. It’s one of those couches that look amazing, but not very comfortable. Only this one is. Because this is my dream. I’ve decorated the beautiful, comfy couch with pillows that matches the light beige fabric and two knitted throws are thrown over the edges. On the walls around me hang Christiane Spangsbergs and Matisses in blues and yellows. They make me calm. I put on the TV and watch Nyhetsmorgon as I eat. I always find it very cringeworthy and embarrassing to watch, still it makes me feel home and safe in a weird way. That’s just what you do in the morning; you watch Nyhetsmorgon. I refill my coffee cup two and a half times. After the first time I open up the window and it smells of early fall. You know, when it’s still warm out, but the leaves are starting to fall off. Maybe it even rained during the night, that’s why the wind feels cool on my skin as it crawls in over the windowsill.
    When I’ve finished my breakfast and my coffee and Nyhetsmorgon has turned into some rerun of last nights Swedish Idol or something, I jump in the shower. I have all sorts of goodies in there. Aesop shower gels and body scrubs, Glossier’s Milky Jelly Cleanser, whatever vegan shampoo. It all smells divine and I take my time washing my hair, body and face. The hot water dances down my back and I move into it so it blocks my ears, making me feel as if I’m under water. I love it under water. I’m cancer, so it’s natural habitat for me. I feel in control. When I step out of it, I reach for the towel. A thick, light gray towel that is warm and dry and that wraps around my body like a blanket. Then I treat my skin. Serum from The Ordinary, priming moisturizer from Glossier, spf from Glossier. I follow up with Chanel to cover redness, Glossier Boy Brow to thicken my brows and & Other Stories to make my cheeks blushy. No pimples. Pimples do not exist in my dreams.
    In my closet hangs perfectly fitted vintage Levi’s jeans, silk shirts and vintage t-shirts I pick up on my travels back to New York and LA. Big knitted sweaters, crisp white t-shirts and basic underwear. I slide into a pair of silk panties, a light washed pair of denim and a tight white t-shirt. Jump into my black flats, grab my leather bag and walk out the door. Probably to meet some friends at some café. Stockholm is clean and nice and home as I walk down the street toward the subway.
     I dream of home.


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