UWCiMish toughts

Photo by Cecilia

Beginning of September. Incredible day when 5 Mostarians manage to meet over dinner in Edinburgh. Georg, Ruth, Yan Kei, Tessa and I. Hopefully we can repeat this down in Devon, in Ruth's place, this Easter.

Sounds good?

Sounds good!

Photoing

Nova idea per a mantindre-vos al dia dels meus menesters. Convertir el blog en un fotolog (com: www.fotolog.com/adonat)! I si els texts no són massa llargs, vindran amb els dos idiomes també (que el castellà es pareix prou al català, i si no els traductors no fan el paper massa malament).

New idea to keep you updated about my doings. To turn this blog into a fotolog (like: www.fotolog.com/adonat)! And if the writing is not too long, it'll also come in both languages (cause Spanish is quite similar to Catalan, and if not, web translators are not too bad)

Fent un calmant a casa, a principis de septembre. Vaig fer un sopar "espanyol" amb pa amb tomaca, truita de pataca, allioli, pernil salat, gazpacho, rosquilletes, fuet... i vaig fer un calmant pa acabar. Però com allà són tan paranoics amb el tema de la seguretat, la alarma de fums de la cuina salta a la mínima mínima. Aixina que em va tocar estar al costat de la finestra oberta. Però ei! Se nota que una s'ha tragat vetllades i vetllades de pares fent calmants.

Seedthoughts

Has your day ever lit up with a sudden and unexpected finding? A note in the book you took from the library? A box urging you to pick it up, containing a magic surprise a stranger had left there for you?

This is what seedthoughts wants to get growing!

The idea is to leave around notes, images, boxes and whatever one can come up with.

Purpose? Set people's thoughts and smiles on fire!

http://get-growing.blogspot.com/

Trying to party

I feel like I never became 20 and I actually got stuck into that teen-age.
Today, after an amazing walk and morning conversation, I thought that my problem was solved. I thought I had discovered what it was, and therefore how to solve it.

My problem, my morning thoughts told me, is that I don't have enough fun. Fun for fun's sake, not as a derivative of any activist or making-the-world-a-better-place oriented action. They are fun and rewarding, I will never deny so, but they are not enough. Not enough if one wants to avoid burnout and a general dissatisfaction with the fact that things aren't going that much better in general terms.

So I thought: that's it, I just need to party more! I need to cut down on commitments and to-do's so that I don't feel the need to avoid partying, so to sleep more, so to have more time and energy for everything.
I felt like maybe I was missing that sort of university life everybody seems to have.

I'm even afraid of being drunk. Afraid of losing myself, of feeling ill, of not being able to make the most of my thoughts and emotions.
And the problem is that... that's fine! And yet I still try to dress up, and paint my face, and all of that, so that I somehow fit in the idea of normality circulating around. Maybe so that I forget the need of constant challenge of the status quo. That tiring yet necessary action.

I came back home, I looked into the mirror. And even though I saw a beautiful face enhanced by the skills of dark eye lines, I can't help but feel like a puppet whose show was way too poor, not even the most simple disguise can make me fit.

I know it's all exaggerated by the power of tears and hormones,
and by not having anybody to hug

I know it all doesn't make sense once I truly rationally think about it

I know it's bullshit coming out of a possible lack of self-confidence

but whatever it is,
it still hurts, it still makes me feel vulnerable.
And if I am writing such a personal statement in such a public space, it might be cause I'm ...
i'm just Neus, doesn't that explain it enough?

Long time no see... again!

Some say that those that keep a diary (similarly, a blog) are those who do not have interesting lives. Hence, why would they be spending their time in front of a computer when there are so many other things to be doing?

I have felt a bit like that lately, so many things going on.

Yet, this blog has kept popping into my head. I bet my mind didn't want to lose its last stimulus to (creative) writing.
Andrew said that you sometimes don't even know what you're actually thinking until you write it down.

I am also back because, even though I have started sending out Neus' Chronicles every sunday, they are in Catalan, and I want my English-speaking people to be able to know what is lately going through my head.

I feel clumsy in my writing. It's rusty.
My language anxiety does not help it.
Maybe I can start sorting it out!

Les Cròniques de Neus

Estava escribint açò en el post d'abans, però crec que es mereixia la seua entrada per separat.


Una idea que vaig tindre l'altre dia va ser de fer "Les cròniques de Neus". On, aquells que tingueu interés en saber què tal és el meu dia a dia, rebreu un correu cada diumenge. De vegades llarg, de vegades curt; de vegades només contant coses d'algun dia, de vegades parlant de cada dia de la setmana.
No ho havia fet mai, perquè sempre m'havia basat molt en el blog, i una mena de diari sobre tot el que faig i pense no és quelcom que em pareix adequat per estar penjat a la web, a l'abast que qualsevol persona.
Aixina que, si us interessen les cròniques de Neus, feu-m'ho saber i vos afegiré a la llista!

A mitan camí - una entrada de diari públic

Torne a saludar després de setmanes i setmanes sense escriure.
Evan diu que és bona senyal el no escriure, diu que vol dir que la meua vida real està plena d'aventures.

Tanmateix, jo trobe que aquestes aventures es fan molt més meravelloses compartint-les. I, doncs, mamprenc el bloc de nou, per seguir compartint visions, experiències i pensaments amb tots aquells que, per alguna raó o una altra, no puc fer-ho amb la companyia d'un cafenet o e-mails a sovint.

Aquesta entrada serà una mica caòtica, no tindrà cap fil concret, ni cap tema de criticisme. Depenent de la vostra definició d'entrada als blocs, pot ser considereu que açò és més bé una entrada d'un diari fet públic, més que d'un bloc com cal.

Es per això que advertisc que aquesta entrada no us serà de cap interés a no ser que el que vulgau saber, precisament, siga el que em passa pel cap i com em senc.


Bé doncs, feta l'advertència, em dispose a començar!

Ara mateixa estic a Barcelona, a casa de Teresa Sellés (i la Gonza, Neus Agost i Giulietta). Aquesta tarda arriba Evan (la meua parella, per qui no tinguera notícies recents) en bus des de Madrid, i demà matí agafem un autobús de unes 24h cap a Londres.
Molta gent s'ha sorprés al sentir que a Espanya tornava només 3 setmanes justetes, que tot l'estiu el passaré per Edinburgh i voltants. I la veritat és que jo tampoc no m'ho acabe de creure, tot i que ha sigut una decisió sobre la que hi he pensat molt.

Com sempre, en tinc i no en tinc ganes, d'anar-me'n. Cada dia que passa estic més segura que Edinburgh és la ciutat correcta, que estic a un dels millors llocs on hagués pogut anar a parar, que estic aprenent cantitats immesurables... Però tot això no pot evitar que, cada vegada que torne a casa, el meu cor solte un gemec: "ai..".
Sóc com un arbre d'arrels fàcils i ràpides. Allà on vaig em sé moure, trobar el que m'agrada, involucrar-me fins el cansament més extrem. Aixina que imagineu si tornara a casa per un període llarg, allà d'on sóc natural, a la terra amb les propietats físiques i químiques més adients per a la meua espècie d'arbre... m'arrelaria tan a fons que no seria capaç de moure'm mai més.
Aquesta és la sensació que tinc. I per això em perdonareu, estimats amics, que seguisca uns anys més voltant pel món, altrament pot ser ja mai ho podré fer.

Canviant de tema, a Barcelona vaig vindre dijous, i vaig vindre amb la intenció d'anar a unes jornades d'okupació europea. Vaig anar només al debat de dijous de tarde, sobre la negociació amb les institucions. Va ser molt molt molt interessant, i no comentaré massa perquè és un assumpte que es mereix una entrada pròpia. Tanmateix, no hi he seguit anant perquè em va agarrar un asma horrible per la nit, i faig la suposició que fou el local...

[Llàgrima] Sí, que jo sóc de les que s'emocionen molt, i de seguida. Llegint Público, he vist que José Saramago morí ahir. Per a qui no hage llegit molt d'ell i li pique la curiositat, ací teniu un blog que he trobat amb algunes entrevistes, extractes de novel·les o relats, i articles d'opinió: http://saramago.blogspot.com/

Aquests dies que he passat a Castelló han estat molt bons. No he pogut vore a tothom que m'hagués agradat, però tampoc em puc queixar; perquè no sé com ho faig, que sempre me les apanye per a vindre a les èpoques on la gent està estressada per exàmens i treballs.

Vaig tindre  una conversa interessant amb Maria Marin sobre el facebook, mantindre el contacte, i les amistats del dia a dia. Per als que no ho sapiau, me n'he anat del facebook; aquesta ha sigut una decisió tant personal com de crítica.
Amb sort, també voldrà dir que em passaré pel blog (i pot ser fotolog) més a sovint.

Au cacau
ací ho deixe de moment!

Emotional Guide to Edinburgh

Brief and first description (will get improved!):

The emotional guide to Edinburgh is a project envisaged by Cornelia, and started by her and Neus on a cloudy day in the grass of the Meadows.
Our aims are to create an alternative guide to this wonderful city, beyond any typical touristic approach.
We will do this by trying to get memories, emotions, secrets, feelings... that people have about the city.
We hope to gather these from people from all ages, all sexes and genders, all nationalities and ethnicities, all kinds of everything!!
Positive and negative, wonderful and nasty, magic and mundane... because life is complex and so are our experiences of our "home" or "passing-by place".

And what do we want to do with all these collection of stories?
Two things!
1.Put it up free and accessible for everybody in internet, somehow (we'll figure it out later on).
2.Publish a zine/book (depending on the amount of material we collect) with a collage of everything!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE?

-If you want to give us your memories, feelings, emotions, secrets... either e-mail it to emotionalguidetoedinburgh@gmail.com or leave it a dropbox that will soon be available in The Forest Café (3 Bristo Place).
It'll be lovely if you could give clear addresses and directions of the place to be able to reference it in a map, if a specific place is related to your memory (either a tree in the meadows, somebody's house roof, a monument or a bin).
DEADLINE: 30th of June.

-If you want to get more involved in the project and help us collect memories, testimonies, lay it out it all in the zine/book... then don't hesitate to contact us at the e-mail already provided! (otherwise you can probably find us hanging around in the Forest).

FURTHER INFORMATION
We will post our progress, any meetings, or workshops... in our blog www.emotionalguidetoedinburgh.blogspot.com
So keep an eye on it!

AND SPREAD THE WOOOOORD!!!

=)

Everyday is election day

I tried to embed it, but it just does not want to work.
Have a look, great poetry: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X92f7H1vrJU

by http://adaisythroughconcrete.blogspot.com

Pensaments blancs

M'he emocionat.

I la mar ha aconseguit trencar les barreres físiques i ficar-se dins els meus ulls sense que me n'adonara.

M'he emocionat perquè, asseguda davant la mar, amb el so de l'espuma besant les roques, m'he sentit plena de gent.

Voldria compartir una abraçada i una conversa amb tota la gent que m'estime i que està repartida arreu del món. I no m'entristeix el no poder fer-ho. Seria una bogeria posar-se trista per quelcom que, de fet, sí que pots fer.

Ni un veloç repàs mental de totes aquelles persones que m'agradaria tenir a la vora és suficient per abastir ni una decena part d'aquestes.

I això em recomforta.

Sent la màgia vibrar allà on el cel i la mar fan l'amor per donar vida a aquell qui dibuixa esperances millor que ningú: l'horitzó.

Mire enllà, i a través de dolces llàgrimes, veig somriure tots aquells qui m'estime.

De sobte, estar sola no significa res si sé que ma mare li somriu a la vida, que ma germana segueix lluitant amb valentia, que Lidon fa molt feliç a mon pare, que la gent a Mostar aprofita els últims dies, que Evan es menja el món com si fos un gelat, que Yuval està content a l'exèrcit, que Ruth Mari Emma Veronica Candela Georg Nico ForestVolunteers i tota la resta segueixen escampant màgia pel món amb la seua simple presència, que els amics de Castelló estan contents, que Lale està pagada de la meua bufanda, que Alberto segueix amb el cul tan inquiet com sempre, que el iaio Vitorino, si pot somriure, segur que ho està fent, que la meua germana major... és feliç - de ser i de no ser - d'haver permés que una persona tan meravellosa com jo puga existir a la faç de la terra.

Seria una bona metàfora per a explicar perquè el meu cor és tan gran i treballa at an unsustainable efficiency rate.

This is the power of NOW.

The joy of existing. The love for other people's lives. The peace of knowing that dying know would not make me regret a single thing.

Un somriure, i cap a l'hotel a skypear.

I'm yours

I was thinking about which language to write this post in. Catalan or English? Sometimes I feel like a traitor, when such spontaneous expressions/thoughts like "fuck, I'm cold!" or "right, now I'll..." come up in English.

But, eventually, more than a language-identity crisis, the choice over language for the blog responds more to another question: who am I writing for? For I am obviously writing for people to read me, otherwise I would just keep it in my diary.

And then, over the hotel's radio channel, there was the answer: Jason Mraz's song I'm yours.

The beginning of the tune always puts me in a better mood. Nevertheless, today it managed to make me cry.

I am stuck in this Croatian hotel until Thursday.

Stuck because, even though the wheather is now as amazing as the food, I really want to get back to Edinburgh.

I cannot say that I feel lonely, I have e-mails, facebook and skype; plus, I meet quite often some women (from Liverpool, Sheffield, and nearby Edinburgh) who are a great fun.

But I need my people. I need somebody to give me a long and deep hug.

To find myself among the fabulous P&Pers, to have breakfast with Candela and tea with Georg, to feel the Forest Café through my five senses again and to look after the Old Hat Books in an always-full-of-surprises shift, to enjoy the Meadows grass, to see the city passing by my bike's wheels, to help out Food not Bombs beyond stupid e-mails from this hotel...

It is not too bad though. Because with the extra help of The Power of NOW, I am even happier with life as it comes. I would be insane to deny how nice it is in this hotel, with the beach nearby, the weather getting better and better, and the food being great (all of which makes it difficoult to get down to writing the essay due this friday...).

But, as I said, my heart is longing for its beloved ones. And I'm wondering how much longer will the soothing sound of the sea manage to calm it down.

Even though the waves remind you that time is passing just as they do, the infinity of the ocean makes Thursday look extremely far in the horizon.

So this is why the song gave me the answer. Why I was so happy to leave Mostar after visit present memories.

Edinburgh, I'm yours.

Smile! ... or your day might fade away

I'm feeling all funny.

As a sentence came up in the Loesje workshop: "Do many homes make you homeless?"

If in Winter I would not have been surprised to see myself coming back to study in Valencia while living in my hometown; right now I cannot wait to get back to Edinburgh, not having many troubles with the thought that I might not go home for the summer break. All of this alongside the building up plan to have a sabbatical year in Bosnia i Herzegovina.

It seems as if I always wanted to be somewhere else.

"Travelling is your way home" or "Travel to find your home" (both also born in the Loesje workshop). Two very similar sentences and yet so different.

Maybe home is everywhere, if home is where your heart is. For my heart is broken into pieces which I have not yet finished exchanging. Like the old man in the story I always tell.

Being "home" is relaxing, yet it can be scary as well. It reminds you of what could have been and is not. It throws on your face your lack of attention, just as it rewards you with those invisible bonds that sometimes, only sometimes, seem to hold even after the longest silences. It comforts you with the always same street but unbalances you with those ever changing small details that you have no control nor experience over. Everything is as equal as it is different.

Today we came to Herbers, my (father's) village. I should remember more often the good that fresh air and nature does to me.

Lunch was over and my dad and I took two sofas to the terrace, and I started my almost-naked sunbathing session (one has to take the most out of this powerful sun before going back to Edinburgh) while reading the newspaper.

The day has had nothing special apart from easy conversations alongside nice walks. Which is sometimes all you need. Plus a few photos and songs in a small flowered field.

I left the only bar in the village early (1.20am), too tired and unsociable enough to not want to make any effort to chat with people I barely know, or whom I stopped knowing. On my doorstep I stopped to look at the sky, wondered if I should not have gone for a walk to see the stars.

But you see, watching stars is of no beauty if you do not have, by your side, somebody to share stories and warmth with.

And here I am, blaming the coffee I had at 11pm, which will probably keep me awake for a while, chatting with myself.

I want to spend some more time home, I want to be in Mostar in an hour and, yet, I also want to be in Edinburgh as soon as possible. How impossible.

I think the happiest day in my life would be the one I could gather all my beloved ones in a big laughing-picnic.

But a hectic world, climate change and peak oil seem to put some barriers for my perfect moment of happiness.

Not that I mind much, I have always been prompt to believe that happiness comes from those small smiles drawn into people's faces, those unnoticed wonders that suddenly become magically visible for the trained eye.

As one of the beautiful postcards Vera gave me:

Jeder Tag trägt tausend Möglichkeiten

Der Freude, der Hoffnung

Und eines kleinen Glüks in sich:

Ganz still und unbemerkt,

Inmitten dieser lauten welt,

Können die herrlichsten

Wunder geschehen.

Es sind jene kleinen Ereignisse,

Die das Leben hell und schön machen,

Jene kostbaren Augenblicke,

Von denen nur das Herz weiss.

Every day offers a thousand opportunities

Of joy, of hope

And of small fortune within it:

Silently and unnoticed,

In the middle of this loud world,

The most amazing wonder can occur.

They are these small things,

That make life bright and beautiful,

Those valuable moments

That only your heart knows of.

I think I am mistaken. Community Education is not my career; nor are they, as I have lately been wondering, Library Management or Literature. It is not being a clown either.

I am probably training in being one of those little fairies who whisper smiles in your ear, mess with your words and hands till you discover that hidden creativity you always thought as lost, and who, recklessly as magic creatures are, would not mind destroying themselves in the attempt of bringing happiness to the world.

Little boys and girls:

SMILE!

=)

Or your (to)day will fade away.

Suissane

This is a story (originally in Catalan http://neusumostaru.blogspot.com/2008/02/una-flor.html) I wrote in Mostar two years ago.

A flower.

Or maybe it wasn't even a flower, but it was something beautiful.

Its name was Suissane.

Suissane dreamed among butterflies. She did not care whether it was cold or hot, because the only thing that mattered was the sparkling sun.

Even though it might not make sense, she liked clouds as well. Suissane was one of those who think positively, those who loved them because, even though they hided her beloved sun, they gave her water. And with water, my friends, Suissane was growing up.

Growing and growing up! Up there with the wind, filling the sky with smiles.

But Suissane, like all flowers, or like all those things as beautiful as flowers, was a bit coquettish. More than liked it, sometimes she even needed the passer-byes to tell her how beautiful she was. And when this would not happen, she would get really really sad and start crying. And she would also grow up, of course, with this salty water, but by being salty, it was sometimes slightly bitter.

Then Suissane would think nobody loved her, because nobody said to her the beautiful things she expected to hear. What Suissane did not know, is that people were afraid. People were afraid of saying their thoughts to her.

Of not saying enough, or of saying it in a way that would not be good enough for her. Sometimes what would happen is that walkers so assumed she was beautiful that they thought it was not necessary to say anything to her at all... how would they dare say anything to a flower! A flower so beautiful that for sure she was tired of hearing so many flattery words.

But what people sometimes forget is that, quite often, those who seem more solid and stable, are the ones who are in most need for something to cling to.

Image: internet

"Ja vorem..."

Em va dir un pardalet anit.

Recordant-me, per això, que no calen veritats absolutes. La claredat no és el premi de cap cursa, més que res perquè atavalar-se acostuma a portar més confusió que altra cosa.

Tenim tots massa pressa. Perdoneu, que no hi ha que generalitzar: tinc massa pressa. Per a tot. I, com em va dir aquell home indi tan savi, que es va seure vora meu a un viatge d'autobús: "encara et queden 60 anys!"

Citaré algú més, Sion, un company: "no t'estresses avuí per quelcom que pots fer demà".

A més, és en la incertesa que hi naveguem; i són els dubtes, tant com les claredats, que menegen la brisa i fan moure les veles.

Les bruíxoles i els mapes et serveixen de guia, però només si saps on anar. Tot i que l'últim no sempre és necessari. Quan millor que a la joventut per gaudir de la innecessària arribada a cap lloc en concret? Que no serveix de res arribar a Itaca sinò aprenem i creixem amb el camí.

A la fi, l'única cosa que em cal saber de ben cert és que, com qualsevol altra persona, sóc meravellosa.

I hui vaig a recordar-li al món que sóc ben bonica.

Photo: Tessa i jo amb carlotes orgàniques. By: Veronica Lopes Da Silva

Identity denial?

Wondering through notes, the words from my room wall in Mostar payed me a visit:

I'm from a sin curve

Where both demand and supply side policies

Do not work

Cannot work

Supplying love and smiles

Demanding love and smiles

I'm from a market failure

Due to lack of protectionism

I'm from a place where big things do not exist

I'm from a place where identities cannot persist

I'm from a place with walls made out of glass

I'm from a place where dreams will always crash.

[Some time in spring 2009]

Photo: the flower in my window had suicidal tendencies

A star from the sky

Yesterday, walking home, I went up the sky to get a star.

I stole it, I cut the string that was holding it to get the light for myself, thinking I had not enough.

Yet (or maybe because of that) today has been crap. Crying my tears out, feeling like a breadcrumb that is not even big enough for an ant to bother with it.

Luckily, in Catalan we can differentiate from "ser" and "estar", and I am certain about the temporary character of my tears.

Tessa randomly appears, as a gift from heaven, and hugs me bringing back the warmth from Mostar; my catalan thoughts connecting me home and my feet grounding me to Edinburgh's earth.

And, as it always tends to happen, genuine smiles turn the world upside down.

A little active innocence running around the room gets my star. Back and forth. Drops it, puts it into a hat, takes it there, brings it here... and without thinking I hear myself saying:

"Agafa-la! Que és per tu! La lluna me la va donar anit per a que hi pogueres jugar! És bonica, eh?"* But the child does not listen anymore, she is messing around with all the flyers, in the Chaplaincy corner next to the microwave.

I do not know where the star is anymore. But I learned to not be worried, to trust whatever happens. Let it be...

Anyway, some starts, even though born in the sky, wish to crash themselves into peaces, so the stardust can stick to everybody's shoes

and light up their path.

*"Take it! It's for you! The moon gave it to me yesterday so you could play with it. It's beautiful, ha?"

Ilustrations from: http://www.loretopinedo.com/

L'home semàfor. Conte 1.

Dius adéu i el cor s'enfonsa.

Un sentiment familiar.

Dius adéu quan voldries dir quelcom oposat.

I és que així hem crescut, rere les pors de dir el que realment pensem (si és que mai sabem el que realment pensem) i sense admetre que, com diu "La Fuga":

"voy buscando en la basura, unos labios que me digan, esta noche quédate"

Així que, tornant a casa, amb el vent resecant el que haguessin pogut ser llàgrimes, m'he adonat quin seria el primer conte sobre l'home semàfor.

L'home semàfor esperava.

No és extrany? No és tant obvi que és ell qui fa esperar a la gent?

Bé, doncs resulta que l'home semàfor sí que esperava.

Les tres llums engegades al mateix temps, una explosió de colors i energia.

No és que ell li volgués dir a la gent què fer. "Para, dubta, segueix" "Roig, groc, verd"

No.

Tanmateix tenia tantes ganes d'enlluernar les vides de la gent, que a sovint ningú no s'hi podia asseure al davant. Massa llum, massa energia.

L'home semàfor esperava i s'entristia, pensava que ningú no el volia. Tossut com ell mateix en donar-li llums a aquells qui estaven en la foscor, s'oblidava d'apagar-se ell mateix, de vegada en quan, per a que altres el plenaren de llum i energia.

Poc després començà un cercle infinit. On ell mai tingué l'energia necessària per donar-li a la gent tot el que li feia falta, i la gent sempre tingué por d'agafar temps a la vida d'una persona tan important.

Ell esperà i esperà a que l'altra persona menejara la seua peça.

No és només que no hi havia una altra persona; és que les peces del joc s'havien anat perdent pel desús que neix del voler jugar un joc perfecte.

Sometimes you sort of forget...

And then you randomly travel through old photos, just because anything is better than trying to sort an essay that makes little sense...

and you find those moments, right there in your screen

your heart bits a bit faster

fuck

you had forgotten that

damn

You wish you were in that street

Wish you could look through that window again

Wish that coffee could meet your tongue once more...

shite

It was long since you remembered that 'Happy "bomb" day'. How funny.

And even though those nasty words (fuck, damn, shite and all that) come out of your mouth, you are no less than extremely nostalgic... and happy.

Yes,

because who would you be if it wasn't for every and each of those seconds that you spent there?

Sure, still Neus.

But a bit less Rodeta, you might say.

I would not say you learn how to appreciate things, people and places when you leave them;

it's rather that when you do

you can see, with the new outsider perspective, how incredibly huge that love actually was.

My love for Mostar, the school and its people would be overwhelming even for the whole Earth to handle

.

.

.

yet it fits in the slow motion tear that rejoices in the jorney through my skin.

When life is nice, you even feel like working

But then all these to-do things, events, campaigns, letters, volunteering, knitting...

get in the way between the essay and you.

I won't deny it, it's not like I mind THAT much.

Living a sunny life brushes away many pains and fears.

And it's not like the sun is to be wasted away when it decides to finally give us a warm hug.

Can I get my bare pass and keep on with my life, please?

I am suddenly anxious.

It seems that my words do not make sense at all.

Surely there are more interesting learning experiences out there that writing an essay for which I do not have any clarity of purpose.

The same all over again. I start very excited, thinking I am going to kick their asses with at least an 80%! I am going to work so hard, yes! [… then time passes…] I end up thinking: What a piece of crap, why do I need to spend time of this? Let's try to get it done quickly with a bare pass…

Consumption is such an interesting thing to consider, but one needs to acknowledge that there is not enough time to read propperly about it all, nor enough space in 1500 words to write about it.

Plus, singing at the Femmstruation week events was both joyful and discouraging.

Somebody get me back home, please.

There were you can smell real oranges, where the sun greets you almost every day, where the stars are not shy amongst the clouds and the salty sea, through your window, does not understand what "evening" means. There where streets are not merely ways to get from A to B, where partying is called "festa" (and it really means so!) and it manages to take my granny atittudes away as if even the thought of them seemed surreal.