Timotej
I grew up in the smallest of small cities. It wasn't even a city. It was a place where everyone told you you wouldn't achieve anything, that you weren't special, that your dreams were only for dreaming - not for living.
My mother was a singer, author, and photographer. My father was a musician and composer. They both believed in dreams. So even though everyone outside the house told me to forget about the rest of the world, that I would be stuck here with a small house, a husband, and two babies, my parents kept reminding me that it was there. My mother used to tell me when you can, get the fuck out of here. The world is so much bigger.
And I did.
I got the fuck out.
I got the fuck out of the little northern country I was raised in and booked a ticket to... New York. Of course. Was there an option? If I was about to discover the world I might as well do it all at once. And what place on earth is as magnificent, as multi-cultural, as exotic, as chaotic as New York?
I started walking the streets, learning their names. I started drinking whiskey. I learnt to pronounce New York the American way, instead of the Swedish Njeu Jåk. I stumbled into celebrities but never asked for autographs because I knew that one day I might be one of them, their friend. I only bought black clothes, and wore them with equally black shades. I wrote songs. I was constantly inspired and never slept. And eventually, it paid off.
I was living the dream.
In New York.
Take that, Ystad.