December 2025

“I’ve got friends who hate you!”, NPC117 tells me. We’re standing across from each other, fairly close, in a moving tram taking us and our small group of drunk friends through the dark streets of Leipzig. No one except for Nero overhears the conversation between myself and NPC117. Nero is sitting alone in the corner of the wagon, a bit distinct, yet still there, either he’s just fed up with all of the chatter and needs a moment of solitude, or he’s fed up with the topic of our conversation. Or he’s just really drunk and concentrating on not throwing up during the ride. I frown and look at NPC117, “Why? Do they know me?”, “No, but they think you’re a fascist”, NPC117’s answer falls promptly. An immediate, sincere laugh breaks my face in a broad smile. “You like that, don’t you?”, NPC117 says in a serious tone and takes a sip of his beer, “No, it’s just that it’s absolutely absurd”, I say, before Roald yells at us from the end of the wagon that it’s time to get off. “Watching that guy speak at that event was like watching him wet himself in public. It was unbearable!”, NPC117 continues as we exit the tram. “Why would he come all the way to Leipzig just to wee himself in front of an audience?”, NPC117 continues, and I start laughing again. This time because it’s actually really funny what NPC117 is saying. The guy he’s referring to is called Mephisto. He’s the leader of a reckless pseudo-art cult called Horror House with whom I managed to get myself devastatingly intertwined over the span of six months this year, March - August. The event NPC117 is talking about is an artist talk I organised in Leipzig in July. As the collaboration between myself and Horror House had reached it’s climax in terms of public attention and scandalisation, Mephisto and his partner Beth, co-director of Horror House and Mephisto’s persistent enabler, had gone from their base in Amsterdam to Leipzig to give the protesting voices against them a chance to engage in direct dialogue with Mephisto about their questionable collaboration with the American far-right, reactionary weirdo called Guy Bug.

Out on the street we stop in front of a late night shop to buy more drinks before going to Roald’s apartment. It’s a cold December night. It’s Roalds birthday and he’s gathered his friends to celebrate. The past days I’d been contemplating whether I wanted to go or not. Yesterday I was in bed all day, feeling like my spirit had left my body and now my body was slowly deceasing. “I can’t handle anymore judgmental, condemning interactions with anyone”, I whispered to Roald. He’d come around my apartment to make me chicken. “The lunatics in Amsterdam are basically terrorising me by now, and there are hostile side-eyes everywhere I go in Leipzig. I don’t know how I’m ever gonna emotionally recover from this living nightmare”. Roald sat by my bed, quietly, “I feel like I’m dying, it’s so pathetic”, a weak giggle slipped through my lips. “Will you tell me a story about friendship?”, I whispered from my pillow, eyes closed. “A story about friendship…”, Roald reflected. “Yes, please”, “Okay. Once I was at a train station with my friend Peter. Two guys tried to steal Peter’s backpack, and in the heat of the moment, Peter fell down on the train tracks. The guys ran away and I jumped down on the train tracks to help Peter get up on the platform again. Peter was very happy how I helped him”. I opened my eyes slightly, cloudy vision of Roald leaned back on his chair next to my bed, his hands folded on his belly. “How stereotypical”, I thought to myself, “How straight cis-men always grab any chance they get to make themselves look like a hero. Their ego-driven opportunism sabotaging every potential for a poetic moment of vulnerability”. Feelings of irritation and repression gnawed at my already shredded heart as I dozed off to sleep. I woke up later to the smell of freshly roasted chicken. I loved Roald for feeding me. We ate the chicken while watching Melancholia by Lars von Trier. “Lucky bastards” I thought, as the world came to an end when Melancholia blasted into earth, and everything and everyone dissolved into beautiful lights. “Roald I don’t know if I’ll have the power to come to your birthday tomorrow evening. Would it be okay for you if we just meet the two of us first, and then later when you meet with your friends I just go home?”. Roald looked at me from underneath his blanket. His eyes turned big and his lips small. “I’d be so happy if you’d be there all the way through though!”, he said and we both went quiet. After a few minutes, Roald broke the silence; “Ok I’ve thought about it. If someone acts out of line towards you tomorrow, I’ll ask them to leave, efficient immediately”. I felt a rush of inner warmth running through my beaten chest. I smiled, “Really?”, “Yes, promise”, Roald assured.

24 hours later, something’s telling me it’s time to go home. Maybe it’s Roald’s friend, NPC117’s more and more aggressive attitude towards me. “What do you think about Horror House’s collaboration with Guy Bug?”, he asks me. We’re still standing around on the street, Roald is inside the late night shop with other people purchasing a box of beer, Nero and Thea are standing around half-way listening to my conversation with NPC117. I know I’m entering a danger zone by involving myself further in this interaction. But hey, he’s Roalds good friend, and Roald is one of the smartest people I know, so how hopeless can NPC117 be? “I was really hooked in the beginning. I thought Guy Bug and Horror House’s idea for the Venice Biennale was quite interesting. Their original idea was that 100 different artists, from all over the world, should each create their own individual interpretation of Titian’s The Rape of Europa”, I tell NPC117, who’s looking at me with an outmost look of concentration on his long, pale face. “I thought it was an interesting approach to curate the American Pavilion. But I don’t really care for Bug’s political ideas though. They’re pretty much the opposite of how I want to see the world evolve myself”, I add, and light up a cigarette. “What do you thi…”, I almost get to ask, but before I can finish my sentence, NPC117 interrupts me: “What do you think about muslims in Europe?”, he asks. I take a deep breath and inhale my cigarette while I contemplate this super random question of his. It’s obviously a trap. Sadly, our conversations has now turned into a test in which I’m subject to NPC117’s self-entitled need for proving him and his judgemental friends right: That their hate towards me is totally justified, and that I am in fact a fascist! Or I answer the only thing that would be, in these characters minds, acceptable: “Muslims in Europe are my favourite thing in the world! I can’t get enough of them! I hope to become one myself one day!!”. Total surrender. Though they might not even accept this, coming from me, cause they’ve apparently already collectively decided, a long time ago, that I am absolute trash. I decide to take the high road and just share my honest, current idea on NPC117’s attack disguised as a question: “Generally I have nothing against muslims in Europe. But it’s obvious that there are cultural differences that cause problems with integration. I do think Europe has the resources to deal with these issues though”. I speak softly and slowly. Make sure I choose my words wisely, so they can’t be misinterpreted. I make an effort to keep calm. NPC117 releases his sturdy gaze from my face, looks down at the ground and sighs resignedly. “Your answer is only okay”, he says and shrugs his shoulders. Oh, is daddy disappointed? I think to myself, as I feel a stench of anger presenting itself inside of me. Who the fuck made this man president of the world? High judge of moral order? What a despicable, patronising way of engaging with me. Has he been feeling this way towards me the entire time during our conversation? That he’s doing me a favour by talking to me? Does he think he’s here to teach me a lesson, make me understand something I’ve been blind to, up until he sacrificed 20 minutes of his life to help me out? Or rather, is his sole motivation to talk to me that he’s finally gotten a chance to put me to a well-deserved test and get something super “problematic” out of me, so he can go back to his group of hysterically intolerant friends and tell them that they were all right? What the fuck is this? But before I get to remove myself from this more and more uncomfortable situation, NPC117 breaks out in a rant about how much he loves muslims: “I think they are an enrichment to our culture! I think muslims make our world a better place! I love muslims! Look how many great muslims there are here on the Eisenbahnstraße! Look at all of these fantastic food shops around, all run by fantastic muslims!”, he goes on an on, and I just stand there, silently, smoking my cigarette, listening to him, while it takes me all of the power I don’t have to not laugh. Finally he stops and looks at me, waiting for a reaction, I suppose. I nod my head and smile. “Sure, I’m not contradicting you”, I say, and NPC117’s eyes suddenly turn frozen. “Why are you getting defensive now?”, he asks me, his incredibly long face even longer now, “I’m not getting defensive, NPC117. You are”, I say while Roald and the rest come out of the late night shop with our drinks and Nero and Thea approach me to ask what the hell is going on. “I think I’m done talking to you now!”, NPC117 declares, looking like that one stone-face emoji I’ve been using a lot lately when chatting with my friends. Well, there you have it. I was unknowingly being put to an exam in political correctness, and now he’s decided I failed, hence he’ll be sleeping sound tonight. He turns around and pulls Roald aside, “Can I talk to you for a second?”, NPC117 asks him. And tell him what, exactly? That I didn’t say how much I love muslims in Europe and that Roald should stop being friends with me immediately and at best call me out on Instagram as well? Also, wouldn’t this be my cue to go home now? But, of course, out of sheer stubbornness, I decide to climb the stairs to Roald’s apartment with everyone else. I have a right to be here. Roald invited me. He’s my friend and he wants me to be here. And up until NPC117 started having a meltdown, I was actually having a pretty good time. And Nero and Thea are here too. They’re cool. But as we climb the stairs, the mood is weird. No one is saying anything to each other, and I’m in an inner dialogue with myself, making a serious effort to not participate in further escalation of this already pretty fucked up situation. Inside Roalds apartment, I go sit by the table in the kitchen, while Roald and NPC117 goes to Roald’s bedroom. Nero, Thea and a few other people come to join me. We all open up our canned rum & coke and beers and light up cigarettes. The others make attempts to start conversations while I try to calm down for a second. But just as I thought NPC117 and I had finally agreed on something, namely never to interact with each other again, he’s standing in front of me. It seems he’s not done yet. He’s standing next to my chair, looking directly down at me, without saying anything. I get seriously irritated and look back at him, “What? What is it that you want? Why do you have this despicable need to seek my attention just so you can reject me the entire time?”. Everyone around us go quiet. A vile little smile dances on NPC117’s giant face. It says “I got you”, only hate in his eyes. As he leaves the kitchen he says “I didn’t reject you. But you are a fucking racist”. I feel a violent punch in my chest. My hands start to shake. I inhale my cigarette deeply. “Why did he say that?”, Nero asks, and Thea gets up and follows NPC117. Everyone else just sits awkwardly around. Where the fuck is Roald? Now would be a good time for him to keep that promise he made me 24 hours ago. No actually, 10 minutes ago would have already been appropriate. I feel like I’m loosing my breath, chest hurts. Fuck, point of no return. As tears begin to run down my heated face, NPC117 turns up in the kitchen, again just standing somewhere and looking at me. I look at him directly, “Leave”, I say in a sturdy, loud tone, “Leave right now”. But NPC117 doesn’t leave. Instead he attempts to put a hand on my shoulder. I whip it away, “Do NOT touch me”, I say, “Get the fuck out of here”, I yell, and slam the kitchen door as hard as I can as NPC117 finally leaves the room. I dissolve in tears. “That asshole doesn’t know me at fucking all, and he has ZERO idea what I’ve been going through this year”, I tell Nero and Thea, who are still sitting by me. Everyone else has exited this massacre of a party killer. Both Nero and Thea try to talk to me and say nice things, each leaving the kitchen in shifts to ask NPC117 to leave the party, which doesn’t work. Roald has to do it. It’s his apartment. His birthday. But Roald doesn’t show. Apparently, he’s busy hiding in his room. Flight mode. The door to his bedroom is half-way open. I can see it through the kitchen door, and I can’t see who’s in there, but I know it’s Roald. I sit in his kitchen and try to stop myself from crying for about an hour. I try to lighten up and speak normally to Nero and Thea, but unsuccessfully so. “Your reaction is surprising me”, Thea says, “You’re always coming off so strong”, “I know, I hate to identify with the victim-position”, I tell her in a liquid voice. After a while of sitting around waiting for myself to stop crying, I accept defeat and put on my coat. “I’m going home”, I tell the others. “Should we come with you?”, they ask. “No, it’s fine, I just need to sleep”, I say and give them both a hug before I leave the apartment. “I’ll take you to the door”, Thea says and gets up. Out on the staircase she looks at me with her big, bright eyes. She grabs my shoulders and looks at me directly. “You’re okay”, she says, compassion written all over her beautiful, strong, clarified face. “And you’re a decent person, don’t ever doubt that”, she gives me a kiss on my red, salty cheek and sends me down the stairs. It takes 3 minutes and 12 seconds to get from Roald’s apartment to mine. We both live on the Eisenbahnstraße. The guy at the late night shop across from my apartment, the one where I buy single cigarettes for 50 cents, calls me “Cleopatra of the Eisenbahnstraße”. I don’t really know where it comes from. But I sure take it as a compliment. 

It certainly was a dangerous experiment. The Project. The Unsafe Event. My life. My art. I lost my head in it and spend the good part of a year searching to get it back. At times I’ve been totally confused of my own actions and everything they birthed. What was it that I wanted (to do)? What’s the core of The Project? Who am I? Who’s Ronja Brainstorm? What the fuck does she want? And what about the Art Whore-ism? 

When the border between life and art gets so brutally, consequently and radically dissolved, the danger it breeds is inevitable. I think I knew. I think most people knew. And they told me. Time and time again, they told me, while my own intuition roared inside of me, constantly battling my oblivious insanity and self-destructive convictions. And on the outside, out there in real-life-Leipzig, at my base, in my bubble, the stronger the reactions towards myself and The Project, the more insistent my performance grew. So why did I do everything I did? Why throw myself into an artistic endeavour so bound to go wrong, in almost every possible aspect? Why insist on pushing myself further and further into the abyss of madness, well knowingly it’d potentially be my social death? The answer: Because I could. As a self-claimed BoBo (Bourgeois Bohème) with, in my dear professors words, “eine extrem hohe Begeisterungsfähigkeit” (“an extremely high enthusiasm-ability”), an insatiable desire for danger and drama, a, according to my therapist, “narcissistic ground pattern” (which is NOT the same as having a narcissistic personality disorder), and a Danish passport, my story can be only my story. No one else’s. And this is why it’s mine to tell. One of the most shocking teachings I take with me from the madness of Summer-Autumn 2025 is how scary it can feel, when you realise that your story is constantly being told by other people. A lot. And not kind-willed, well-meaning, trustworthy people, no no. People who doesn’t want the best for you. Judgemental, gleeful, scandal-starving strangers. Or enemies who used to be your friends. 

So while I discovered new respect and compassion for actual celebrities who bend completely under the pressure of public scrutiny, I didn’t get to pull the brakes on this way too wild ride, before I crashed into a stone wall in a tunnel and my car exploded. 

I know it all sounds a bit dramatic. But I live dramatically. My entire existence takes place on a rich spectrum of violent emotions. I’m fortunate to have a handful of tolerant, impressively intelligent friends and a loving, endlessly patient family. And yes, I easily get bored. And yes, many of my life’s biggest decisions I’ve made in moments of sheer restlessness. But the year of 2025 was for my part driven by something different. At best, it was driven by passion and curiosity. At worst, ego-maniac narcissism and idolatry. 

All of this, combined with a poetic outlook on the world, is the Mother of The Project. Who’s the father, you might ask, and I’m happy you do! I’d say the father is the time and place in which Mother gives birth to The Project: Northern Europe, 2025. Mostly in tense, repressed, raw Eastern-German Leipzig, with strong ties to a healthy, stable, wealthy butter hole called Copenhagen, as well as a rather dangerous connection to a reckless, underground art cult in Amsterdam. 

Mother tells the story. She always does. Regardless of what father throws at her, Mother will tell the story. And so I will. The next eight months, I’ll publish a new text every week, telling the conflicted, twisted and ambiguous story of my beloved problem child, The Project. 

Writing about past experiences is like committing myself to live in the past for a while. This scares me a bit, I have to admit. But though there is so much of my past I don’t enjoy thinking about at all, radically plunging myself into these moments and writing about them as if I’m still living them, is to me the most powerful way of channeling lived life. Eliminating the distance time has naturally built between myself and my experiences, is what I call “writing with immediacy”. My writer-friend M says that writing as I-narrator in present tense is the most complicated method of all writing methods. He says it’s because, as a writer, this method requires an incredible overview of what information the reader will need for them to be able to understand what’s being described. And this can be very difficult to manage when writing so directly from your very own point of view.

But both writing in past tense, as well as writing about the different events of this story chronologically, would bore me to death. I want to write the story of The Project with the same immediacy and impulsivity that I lived and created it. Only in this way can it be real. That is, as real as art can be. The stories within the story will naturally intertwine and entangle, like silk threats dancing and colliding, the nonsense will make sense and the sense will make nonsense. Cause though it’s become more and more fathomable and graspable what the hell went down last year, the more answers I find, the more questions they open up. How to dig twenty thousand deep holes in a tiny field of fragile flowers? While the world around me keeps turning, screaming, yelling, pulling and pushing, violent distractions and influences for a woman who’s already been shredded to pieces, still barely has managed to put herself together again? 

Anyway, I’m loosing myself in cloudy metaphors. The point is: the story is there. And it will rise and unfold like a hundred sunflowers that have been hanging low for months, in the shadows of anxiety, fear and shame.

Ok I’ll stop now. So I can start.