“I’m wasted, and I can’t find my way home”
Blind Faith
Finding the Spirit in Me
Turns out you can have the chaos without the cocktail. Who knew calm could flirt so dangerously?
I wanted to see if I was still me without the spirit. Not the kind that comes in a bottle, but the one that stirs restless thoughts, laughs too loud at nothing, refuses to sit still.
So I tested it. The chaotic me, the untaimed me — she’s still here. Not a hurricane this time, not a storm knocking furniture over and rattling windows. Now she’s a sea breeze: curious, sly, brushing along quietly, nudging me toward moments I’d otherwise miss.
Walking along the shore, I notice everything:
- the salt tang carried by the wind
- the chill sneaking into my hair
- the rhythm of waves brushing against rocks
I can still feel the volcanic sand under my feet from the Faroe Islands, faint traces that remind me of journeys past, of steps taken on strange earth that somehow feels like mine. The sea breeze lifts the memory and blends it with the present, gentle but insistent, asking questions without expecting answers yet.
Haapasaari: First Sight, First Breath
An island that smells like freedom, sauna smoke, and questionable decisions. I like it already.
Haapasaari. A small, remote island whose name already sounds like a sigh. The moment I stepped off the boat, I inhaled sharply: salt, seaweed, wet stone, wind brushing past my ears. Silence hums softly in the background, like a drummer counting out a rhythm only I can hear.
Last night, I swam naked in moonlight. The water stole my breath before giving it back warmer, fresher, alive. Floating under stars, I laughed at the absurdity of life and remembered a night long ago in a tiny middle-aged village in Italy.
I had asked a lover at the time,
“Why don’t we take away pizzas from the local pizzeria, a bottle of wine, and go to the beach for moonlight swimming?”
The answer was, predictably, “That’s not a great idea.” Even though it was. Even though it could have been a romantic, erotic celebration — passion for each other, for the world we were in, for life itself. But he was still captured by the rules of his life, obsessed with avoiding sand on the food, avoiding anyone seeing, avoiding life. He lost a moment of a lifetime.
The idea had also been seeded by a book I read long ago, a story of a woman called the wild cat of the seas, making love with a captain on a deserted beach. The description of his skin tasting like sea salt had lodged itself in my brain, a secret formula for freedom and desire.
Floating in Haapasaari, I could feel that fantasy and memory intertwining — the thrill of being untethered, the possibility of joy and passion, the knowledge that sometimes people simply cannot see the door I’m trying to open into my lovely home. Sometimes, like that fucker who couldn’t handle a little sand on pizza.
Later, as the sauna heated, a local man drifted in. Smelling strongly of pirtu — island moonshine — he tried his luck. Awkward, fumbling, slightly staggering. He rambled about surviving the winters, how the island demands a strong spirit. I nodded thoughtfully. Clearly, his “strong spirit” came in a bottle. I pondered the irony and felt amused rather than threatened: some people need alcohol to show courage, some of us just need sea breeze and moonlight.
And then the sea breeze itself changed. It was no longer just salt and wind. It transformed into a scent mixture of:
- sea salt
- pirtu
- wood smoke from the sauna stove
- sausages sizzling on the hot stones
The aroma curled around me, teasing, comforting, chaotic and alive — and somehow it made me feel at home. The wildness of the island, the strange blend of scents, the heat of the stones, and the promise of warmth all whispered, This is yours, if you want it.
Living in School (Head of Little Heads)
Rulers, chalk dust, and tiny humans plotting world domination. I call it education.
By some cosmic joke, here in Haapasaari, I live in an old school building. Chalk dust lingers in the corners like it refuses to leave, the floors creak as if they’re whispering secrets, and the windows are drafty enough to remind me that the world is always partially outside yourself.
I am the Head of Little Heads, guiding tiny humans through the alphabet and the chaos of their own thoughts. And tonight, I lie in a room where countless others once learned theirs. Comfort? Perhaps. Resonance? Absolutely. Echoes of curiosity, mischief, and confusion blend with my own.
Life has always felt like a series of classrooms — some welcoming, some terrifying, some absurdly magical. Once, I was the student in a classroom led by the life before, a strict, unflinching head of heads. He tapped my fingers with a ruler, guiding my behaviour toward the desired direction. Painful, rigid, and unfair — yet I followed him willingly. Not out of fear, but love. I wanted to see where his path would lead.
And I learned. I learned that making mistakes isn’t supposed to be punished — we punish ourselves enough already. The ruler tapped my fingers, but it never tapped my mind. Life is a long path of learning, sometimes barefoot on rough ground, sometimes like this morning, stepping lightly across wet grass, feeling the world wake beneath your toes. I carry that lesson still: guide with care, embrace mistakes, and laugh when the world doesn’t follow the script. That’s the rhythm of my life, the balance between chaos and calm, curiosity and control.
Restless Footsteps
I move a lot. I find the worst homes. And then I make them ridiculously beautiful. Mother was right, as usual.
I’ve moved a lot. Denmark holds the record: four whole years. Four years that felt both long and short at the same time, like a scarf too loosely measured, wrapped around my heart.
My mother once told me:
“No matter what the home looks like — and you usually find the worst ones — you make them beautiful.”
She wasn’t kidding. I’ve walked into apartments that smelled like wet socks had a permanent residency, kitchens that looked like they’d been abandoned during a midlife crisis, bathrooms where the tiles threatened to collapse under my awe — and somehow, I turned them into home. I didn’t just survive them. I made them laugh, breathe, and occasionally wink at me.
And sometimes the shit hole is a person — someone who barges in, stomps on the carpet of your calm, throws your sense of warmth out the window, and tries to convince you that home isn’t yours to claim. I’ve met a few of those. But here’s the thing: even a person trying to ruin a home can’t stop me. Even when the world — or some poor fucker — wants to ruin it, I can still create sanctuary, even if it’s invisible to anyone else.
There’s a thrill in it — taking the chaos, the leaks, the noise, the bad vibes, and bending it into something that breathes, something that feels alive, something that whispers this is ours. Restlessness isn’t a flaw — it’s a compass. Every move, every departure, every moment of searching has shaped me. Perhaps home isn’t a static destination. Perhaps it’s the courage to keep moving until the world finally stops resisting you. Perhaps it’s not a place at all, but a way you inhabit the world.
I notice it most when I walk barefoot on new soil, when volcanic sand presses underfoot, or when wet grass pulls at my toes in the morning. Every step tells a story. Every step reminds me that I’ve been carrying a thread of home with me all along — invisible, quiet, but there. The ability to see beauty in what others call shit holes, to find warmth where others feel only cold — that’s the real secret I carry.
Huussi Sunrise (or Happiness in Small Letters)
Barefoot, dew-soaked, coffee in hand — apparently this is my kind of circus, and I’m the ringmaster.
This morning, I padded barefoot to the huussi — the legendary outdoor toilet. The grass tugged at my toes, slick with dew. Sunrise beams shook me awake gently, as if the world itself was impatient for me to notice. Somewhere distant, thunder rumbled softly, a reminder that the day was alive before I fully was.
Fresh coffee waited inside, its aroma sneaking past the door before I even opened it. Thankfully, it was fresh coffee — not the other fresh option. I paused, savoring the moment, thinking of all those shit holes — the people who tried to ruin the feeling of home. The ones who stomp on warmth, who try to convince you that a home isn’t yours to claim. And yet here I am: toes wet with dew, hair damp, chest full, coffee in hand. Somehow, I carry home with me anyway. Somehow, it survives. Somehow, it thrives.
I lingered barefoot, ridiculous and grinning, letting it all in: the wind carrying salt and earth, the echoing clouds, the heat of sauna stones, the faint ghost of sizzling sausages, and smoke curling from the wood fire. Home isn’t a place, or a person, or even a perfect space. It’s the ability to carry warmth, joy, and absurdity into the world, even when someone — or something — tries to stomp it out.
And then it struck me: I can make a home anywhere. Even here. Even now. Even if someone tried to ruin it.
Home is the sea breeze tangled with smoke, the taste of salt on skin, the cold grass under your toes, the steaming cup of coffee that reminds you you survived yourself.
Just don’t tell Instagram. They’d never get that home smells like smoke, sea, sausages, and unapologetic joy.
So, I can find my way home. What about you?
Let me tell you a story 
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