In the late spring of 2014, I left my home in Barcelona to walk in Norway for twenty days with my friend Jeppe. We planned to follow the last 300 kilometers of the pilgrim path to Trondheim, St. Olav’s Way, named after the Norwegian king who brought Christianity to Norway in ad 1033.
I am not a religious person; I do have not faith in any of the marketed Gods but a strong belief in life. And yet, during this journey, I experienced an encounter with a muskox that I can only describe as healing, perhaps even spiritual.
Read the rest of my essay in Amethyst Review.
My brother died the third of October, 1993. Or maybe he died the day after, on the fourth of October. Does the date really matter?
Death is death. It awaits us all.
My brother, whose name was Jesper, died at the age of twenty-six, someday in October, somewhere in Denmark.
Read the rest of the essay in the Foliate Oak Literary Magazine
After my brother’s death, I wrote, “I need to live double.” That day I became a writer.
My brother died between the 3rd and 4th of October, sometime after the night had ended but before the next day had begun. It was in 1993 that an overdose killed him. He was 26 years old. I learned of his death the next morning. That day I wrote my two first lines as a writer: “I need to live double,” followed by, “Now, it’s up to me.”
Read the rest of the essay here, South 85 Journal.
I’ve published an essay that tries to answer the question: Who lives a life worth living?
I’ve published an essay that deals with the death of the French philosopher Gilles Deleuze. If you feel like, you can read it here.