Ingolf Arne Strangeland

A profile of the author: I was born on a barren rock in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, as far north as you can go without taking a boat. People lived there, but mostly because life is an acquired taste. Given a choice, all of us that were born here would likely want to live somewhere it doesn’t rain as much. Somewhere the wind is less harsh and unforgiving, where it doesn’t snow wet sleet half of the year. Somewhere the sun doth shine. Probably Tenerife, or Ibiza, or anywhere you can get a tan and drink your beer outside without needing an umbrella. But home is what you miss when you’re not there. And I never was, so I left. But instead of a sunny beach, I ended up in Ireland instead. I blame PR and HR, one of them good and one of them bad. I leave it to you to figure out which one is which. But I miss home, even if it doesn’t miss me. What am I missing? I left a barren rock because I had become one, but I don’t have to remain one. I can choose to return. Even if only through words. Even when they aren’t heard. Words are what separates us from the animals. And yet each of us is one, we just choose to forget. We don’t exist. Then we exist. Then we don’t exist again. Humanity fears the before and the after, we disagree on what is in between. That is Life, the journey between the two states of non-existence and the struggle to make sense of it before it is too late. I’m sorry if you read this and expected a neat biography about someone’s life. Perhaps I’ll write one after I’m gone. If I don’t run out of words first. I hope I don't.