Skrev for en stund siden en tekst her på siden, denne ble så oversatt til engelsk (og tysk) av noen venner av meg. Her er den ferdige engelske utgaven.

The punch hits me right in the face, the pain rapidly spreads and it gets dark, silent. It takes a few seconds until the next punch hits me and rips me back to reality, this time in the belly. I have trouble catching my breath. The last punch hits me in the back of my head and everything turns black.

I woke up three days later at the hospital; someone had found me in a narrow alley in Oslo. I still remember the girl that hit me, everything about her, every detail in her face, and the smell of her, what clothes she was wearing. It’s funny that I remember so much about her, and nothing about myself. I don’t recognise myself in the mirror, I don’t even know my own age, or whether I have a family or not.

The doctors say that I will have permanent brain damage; they don’t know whether I will ever get better. They also say that I will have problems with “storing” new memories. I could end up loosing my short term memory all in all.
I now write everything down in my journal just in case I don’t remember things.
After I woke up in hospital three days ago, I have spoken a lot to other people here. There are not many people my age here, not that I even know how old I am. I would guess somewhere in my mid 20’s. Most of the people here are older people, some are here to die, and some are here to not die. The only thing they have in common is that they are old.
Most of the people here are quite lonely so I talk a lot to them. I pretend to talk to be nice, but in reality I just want to gather memories. Find out what happened in the world these past years.
They are all really nice, they all feel very sorry for me, that I got my memory so coldly ripped away. They came and stole my security, and exposed me to blind violence in the middle of Oslo’s streets.

I like talking to the elders, they have already told me a lot and I’m starting to get a picture of what happened in the past years, both in Norway as well as in the rest of the world. But I still don’t know anything about me, and who I am. It’s very frustrating. Who am I? What is my name?
Everybody at my section just calls me John. They probably got it from the American John Doe, the name of an unknown person.
At night all sorts of things spin around in my head. Why did this happen to me? Obviously it wasn’t a robbery, since I still have my watch and cash in my wallet when I arrived at the hospital. So why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve something like this?
I have the same dream every night. I dream about what happened, the girl that brutally smacked me to the ground. I wake up, dripping wet, every night. Why can’t I dream something else? Something from my past life, just to get some clue about who I am.
I will try to sleep now, in hope of dreaming a new dream that might help me figure out who I am.

I had a new dream tonight. I was at a nightclub, I met a nice girl whom which I bought a few drinks for. She spoke to me, and seemed very interested in me.
When the club closed I walked her home, even though she said she didn’t want me to, but I did. She tried to run away from me, but I ran after her. She ran into an alley. I grabbed her arm. Ripped her top off of her. I had bought her lots of drinks; I wanted value for my money, now.
Right when I’m about to lay her to the ground, she swings one at me. She hits me in the face, then in my belly. One last in the back of my head.
I wake up in a bed, dripping wet again. Now I know I wish I could forget.

Tekst: André Eliassen
Translation: Jakob Andersson & ChAzZeH