The Death of a Young Poet

The Day I Learned My Chains Were Made Of Thought

When I was eight, I wrote my first and last poem.

It was a quiet afternoon in our living room in Vennesla, Norway. My father, a police officer built of stern logic and hard facts, sat in his usual spot on the sofa, steam rising from his coffee cup like smoke signals warning of impending doom.

I stood there, paper trembling in my small hands, heart racing with the peculiar mix of terror and anticipation that marks all great moments of potential self-destruction. The silence after I finished reading…