I’ve come through the door and it’s a different opening this time. I don’t know from where or when I’m writing, but suffice to say, this is a strange and unfamiliar land to be in. I do not know how not to be in school, I do not know how not to succumb to laziness, indecisiveness and lack of confidence when it comes to taking risks. I don’t know how to look at myself anymore, and it’s scary. Coming back to Norway often feels like dropping off the face of the earth. It’s so peaceful and quiet, I notice, and then I’m scared it’s not real. How can it be? There’s no dust. The sunlight is clearly slanted through the crowns of the trees in cursive, and I notice fall is here. People smile when they give me the stamps (they could in the US also, but it’s different here). It’s another place than the place I have inside of me, and I don’t know if it’s unnaturally quiet outside or absurdly loud on the inside. I don’t know if this is an essay or a blog post or the beginnings of my personal memoirs, but it’s sorting-out-ness, in one way or another. I tell myself I know what things to want, and what I simply will not do. I got upset the other day because someone suggested I become a teacher, but now I might become a replacement at the local middle school for arts and crafts. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Will I have time to write applications, scour the internet for residencies, work on my portfolio? The real question is not this. The real question is this: will I have the guts to do so? Will I think that it’s easier to get a regular job, it’s simpler, more straightforward, and it will be enough for me? Will I chose to sleep longer rather than waking up before work to bead, or to write, or to weave, or to draw? Am I doing this on my own?