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Showing posts from March, 2015

A random thought...

Everything has a soul. A feeling, something, call it whatever you want. But everything has that something that captures you in a moment and gets stuck in your memory.
My memory is beautiful. Whether it's a happy or a painful memory, it still is beautiful playing in my eyes like a bright, colourful movie.

Careful. It's fast paced. Contains flashing images and loud music.

There's pieces of dancers and sparkles. Bubbly fires shaking their hot tongues in delirious rhythms. Deep blue waters carrying the weight of me, many memories in me. Sea urchins and sharp rocks. Weddings. First day of school. And the last. Strange faces that have somehow left a mark. A green house. And a red dress. Some of my most precious memories.

How it surprises me when I sit and rummage through my memory in calm, that my most precious memories have no great meaning to my life, but they do to me. Moments with a soul. Moments with a soul that maybe has spoken to my soul. Moments of barely any importance t…

So, are you excited to go back home?

Where is home?

I am told it is right where the heart is, but do I even know where the heart is? Does that mean I don't know where home is?

I've come back from university. Back to my parents home. The home we've lived in for the past four years since we moved to England. It doesn't feel like home. The home I grew up in, back in my country, it doesn't feel like home either. Home stopped being home when I left.

I fail to understand the idea of 'going back home'. People get homesick, I just miss a few people. Maybe I'm so into the moment, that I find home wherever I am and don't really give it much of a thought. Maybe my heart never gets out of my chest so home is always with me. I'm like a turtle, carrying my home around wherever I go.

Or maybe... Maybe I'm homeless. Maybe I am a foreigner wherever I go. I leave a place and the next time I come back it has changed, whether it's a new road, or a new flowery curtain in my room (oh mum!) or new…

Some thoughts of nostalgia for F.M.

Where is Florin now? The boy from 3rd grade, with the strange, deep voice that was anything but normal for a boy his age… The boy with the thick square glasses he broke often but no one noticed… almost no one.
The boy from 4th grade. He sat next to Anna on the last table by the window and I would have to attach my single desk to their table every morning. We kept warm all three of us, even though, it was already warm.

He was there. Florin. With me and Anna, attached, walking around the school as if someone had applied superglue all over our arms and then tied them together.

His voice, his hairy legs, and us, was all that Florin was known for in school. The other boys laughed at him. They pointed and called him a weirdo who only hangs out with girls. Words touched Florin. Words touched Anna. Words touched me too. Florin was the only one that never spoke back, but let their words eat him from the inside and kept being attached to our arms.
I spent many lunchtimes asking him why he was a…