Losing game, losing face.

2015, you've burnt me from the very beginning, how very kind of you. I want you to know that it doesn't matter. You always win, anyway.

I'm at the same point in life as I was a few years ago, and a couple of years before that. And I'm a lot older, but sadly none the wiser. I always thought I was not a gambler, that my life risk taking aversion will help me in the end, help me make the right choices. As it turns out, although I never learn, I mostly go for the gamble. Gambling is such a nasty addiction - you do it again and again and again, even though your voice of reason is screaming at you 'Don't do it! Don't do it! You'll regret it!'.

My head did scream at me, almost three years ago. It has been screaming at me every day ever since, but I've managed to silence the little voice to a point that I convinced myself it wasn't there anymore. I thought I won. I felt on top of the world for a long time, albeit for such a small (and as it happens, fake) victory.

But it's all my fault. Who can I blame for me having lied to myself for all this time? I can only point to the reflection in the mirror. I wanted to lie, to make it true, to make it pretty and perfect. But the gamble is never true, never pretty, never perfect. It's dirty, nasty, a vicious circle you only manage to break free of when you've hit rock bottom.

I'm not quite there yet, but I can feel it coming. I'll be hitting that rock soon enough and once again, having to pick myself up. It's funny, I recognise all the signs, yet the addiction is still keeping me in my cozy circle. So I've no one to blame. Even when I will hit rock bottom and ascension will begin again, I'll still be the only one at fault. Irrationally, I blame her. Every day, I blame her. In my head, I scream at her that it's all her fault I'm once again broken and in pieces, but on second thought, it's me. I let her get to me, she slowly broke down all my carefully built walls, let the sun shine in once again... And then she turned away and it's dark again.

No light at the end of the tunnel. Not yet, it's too soon. For now, all I have is a terrifyingly long walk, fumbling along a wall of memories in complete darkness. Adjusting to darkness is the worst part, I know. Once your eyes are alright in the dark, light emerges. And that will happen, light comes after dark just like a neat conveyor belt. This is not the end.

This is just one end. Feels remarkably like all the rest, although I'm sure it's one of those gets-worse-before-it's-better ends. The year is just beginning. Maybe it's all uphill from now on.

... I can lie to myself a little while longer, I guess.
Life, you win again. Check mate.

Welcome to the dollhouse.

“Marched up to me, looked me right in the eye and said, ‘I’m here for a job. Any job.’ Work experience, none. Recommendations, none. Skills….

So I gave her a job, any job.”

Gone are the days where that could happen. Albeit, that is a fictional exchange from The Gilmore Girls, circa 2003. A mere decade later, I find myself in the unemployed shoes, except that now one can’t simply walk up to people and ask for a job. I’ve been doing that for the last 10 months and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. And no, I haven’t been applying to jobs that do not match my resume or my sparkly eyes and exuding personality.

I am looking for a part time position in a customer service environment. Pubs, restaurants, bars, stores, high street shops. You know, workplaces fit for an Eastern European immigrant. I’ve been living in London for the last (almost) 5 years and in this time I’ve been a nanny, a bartender, a waitress, a student and all around, a punching bag for English employers who think that an Eastern European background equals not knowing the law and rights and responsibilities of employees/employers.

Don’t get me wrong, some of my employers have been absolutely lovely. In 2012, I’d been unemployed for close to a year and my former manager was amazing enough to give me a chance, in an environment I didn’t have any kind of experience.

Since then, I’ve gone back to school to focus on what I really want to do – journalism. I’ve been a student at Goldsmiths and I’m now in my third year, looking yet again to get a part-time job. Studying is great, but unfortunately it doesn’t pay the bills and I don’t have super rich parents willing to foot the living bills that come attached to the not-so-glamorous London life.

But I’m crazy, I know. I should go to the closest jobcentre plus and apply for benefits. That is, after all, what is expected of me, as an immigrant. That is what David Cameron assumes, that I’ve only moved to London to live off other people, which is probably why I’ve been studying for the past three years. So I can get a degree, drown myself in endless student loan debt and ultimately, ask for government charity.

I’m crazy, I know. Crazy to think that with a strong administrative background, not to mention several years of customer service experience and the knowledge I can actually finish a degree, I could ever get a position a monkey could fill provided it could explain that no, it doesn’t have other aspirations than to endlessly serve.

After close to 300 rejection letters and numerous humiliating phone calls/personal calls to various places of business, I’m probably out of options. I moved here believing in London’s multicultural background and I spent the last three years studying British media history, British media law and cultural studies. And yet, the one thing I can’t seem to escape is my non-British nationality.

Just goes to show that London is not exactly welcoming to immigrants, unlike the garbage mainstream media has been serving Londoners on a silver platter.

A small line in my passport says more about me than anything I’ve ever done.

Oh, grow up.

In 2014, it’s impossible to go a day without seeing some proof of your average joe’s entitlement over other people. This particular time: a parking space in a gated community in North London.

I live here. I’ve been living here for little over 2 years. It’s a fairly secure property, with a gate accessible only with a four letter combination code, given to residents and Royal Mail. And for the past year, to every Tom, Dick and Beelzebub in town with a car and a fiver to spare.

Yes. Average joe is renting out the parking space assigned to his flat, to make some spare change, probably to pay for a speck of fuel. Or maybe his every day coffee. Neither of which matters here.

This past week, my parents drove across Europe to visit. They came here, I let them in and told them to park the car in this particular space – mind you, for 20 minutes only. Why? Visitors parking was occupied, by a car belonging to none other than my average joe here. So I figured it wouldn’t be a huge problem if my parents put the car there until they washed up and had a glass of water. Seeing as you know, he’s parked in the visitors bay and I had visitors?!

Little, little child. Me. I was handed a note and swiftly told that if I wanted the parking space, I had to go online and book it, for it belonged to the flat in question and I had no right to park there. Okay, you got me there. When prompted to move the car, we did so without causing a big fuss. But I couldn’t park in visitors parking, because uhm, you’re occupying it with the car that should rightfully be in the bay you’re asking money for. Far be it from me to stop people from collecting money on properties they lawfully own, but seeing as I also live here, you kind of have to use the rightful space or find another elsewhere, not use all available unmarked space that's servicing the rest of the block. Others have cars, too. Maybe they would like to park there.

So, like any civic minded citizen, I went home, googled his precious parking space and found his hourly rate. I proceeded to put half of the rate in his mail box, as the car had been stationed for only 20 minutes and I didn’t intend parking it there again. Maybe I was angry, too. I'd parked a rental car with English license plates before, in the same spot and with him seeing it, and he hadn't said anything at all. Suddenly, he has an opinion because the car has foreign licence plates. His entitlement is infuriating. He has been harassing me ever since, presumably to talk to me. Waiting for me to come outside, then waiting for me to come back home.

He asked for money (I still have the note in which he’s redirecting me to the website, for booking and payment purposes), I gave him money. I may have given it to him in a fashion he doesn’t deem acceptable, but I didn’t see him object nor return it to express how offended he is. Without reason, if I do say so myself.

I don’t understand people. You don’t give them what they want, they harass you. You give them what they want, they still harass you. How long can this world go if the owner of a lousy parking space he’s not even using can behave in such an asinine way? It’s not even that valuable. You ain’t in the Fortune 500, honey. Keep your change.

On growing up Eastern European, depressed and somewhat ambitious

Warning: This is a rant post.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression when I was 20, following a less than ideal childhood, a break in and a street mugging that left me more paranoid than children being irrationally afraid of the dark. I’m turning 27 this year and it has been a roller coaster, but it feels better than it did 7 years ago. I managed to move all the way to London, so I guess the depression fog occasionally lifts long enough for me to do some things.

Coming from a restrictive, poor environment, I was never encouraged to go that extra mile in school. Good enough was always enough, as my parents were constantly busy trying to provide for me and my sister, or otherwise busy with their own personal issues. I blamed them for a very long time, but I realised after years and years (of issues) that despite parenthood, they too were people and were going through problems that had little to do with being a parent. I guess therapy does help, with some things.

Growing up, I loved learning languages. That’s what I remember most from my early days in school. My French teacher always encouraged me and cheered me on, and I decided when I was 9 that I wanted to become a translator. My little girl dream was to learn French, English and Arabic and to work for the European Parliament. I’ve always been fascinated with politics. But then I grew up and grew old and exchanged those ambitions for being a writer. I used to write children’s tales in my preteen years and it seemed to flow, so I figured it would be a nice profession. I still do. But I grew up. Unless you’re writing a bestseller, writing isn’t an easy occupation. So I abandoned that thought, although not entirely as I still write fiction, albeit not for publishing purposes. I changed my mind again, or rather was forced by circumstances to do it. I studied business and accountancy, which was a far cry from humanities and the arts. My parents figured it would be a money making career, at least more than spending time at home, coddling my imagination in hopes for a great novel idea.

Then I got diagnosed with depression. Suddenly going to school to study something I couldn’t relate to, couldn’t infuse any passion into, was unbearable and excruciating. Long story short, I thoroughly disappointed my parents and moved to London. I think I was running away. I spent the first two years trying to sort myself out. Did I even have any ambitions left? Did I want to do anything? Did I have a plan? No, I didn’t. So I revisited all my little girl dreams. And I changed my mind, again. Or as I like to think, I made up my mind.

No, I wouldn’t be a banker, or a hedge fund manager. I decided journalism was what I wanted to do. Or even publishing would suffice, if I happened to be a horrible writer. So I went back to school to dedicate my mid to late 20s to a craft that has become insufferably competitive, and even more so if you’re not from a country whose reputation doesn’t involve thievery, homelessness, carelessness and debauchery.

I was happy! And since being diagnosed at age 20, I couldn’t remember what happy was. But when I got the acceptance letter, I was happy. Fast forward two years later and here I am. I’m about to start my senior year and I think I made a huge mistake. Not in choosing to study in this field, or pursuing a career that’s increasingly more dangerous than rewarding (or so would the newspapers have you believe). But I think it would have been easier for me to choose something that’s predictable and expected of someone like me. I tell people what I want to do and they deeply congratulate me. For studying in a foreign language, for wanting a writing career in a foreign language, for trying to break free of all the negative stereotypes that surround my nationality. I know, I know, I should feel grateful for all the nice things people say. But I feel offended most of the time. Yes, people are nice saying these things to me. Yes, they seem to mean it. No, they aren’t aware of my past experiences and no, they don’t know my journey. It’s offensive to me that people pigeonhole me as that Eastern European girl trying to bite more than she can chew. I would rather they said that girl whose writing puts us all to sleep. Which I’m sure I have by now.

I dream of being a political journalist. Depression often keeps me from pursuing it, but I occasionally take one step further and I’m reminded that this really is something I want to do. Can I do it, really? I live in a country who constantly talks about Eastern European citizens like they’re the devil incarnate. And you know, some are very bad. But some of us have to hide our nationality on résumés, and even then it’s still hard to find a job that’s not in cleaning services or in the catering industry, because that is what’s expected of us. So maybe I am making a mistake in having big dreams and ambitions that are better suited for people who go to schools like Eton and Oxbridge and eat with a silver spoon every day. Perhaps I was wrong in thinking I can pursue a successful career in a competitive field in a country that prides itself on being free and equal. Maybe I should marry rich. Maybe I should have claimed benefits and bought myself a silver spoon.

The business of 'getting in'

In 1482, Leonardo Da Vinci wrote the first ever resume and it wasn’t until almost 500 years later that this piece of paper became a staple in order for someone to get a job. If at first a resume was simply a description of one’s professional experiences, nowadays it is nothing more than data analysed by recruiters.

I still remember when I wrote my first resume. For my first job, I didn’t need one – I knew the boss. Don’t you just hate nepotism? It does however make the world go round. My first curriculum vitae was sent out containing no buzz words, only a few lines about my education (I’d finished high school 3 years before this moment and was studying accountancy in Romania) and some information about what I was doing in my current position. I can’t remember having a need for including words that can go through a recruiter’s filtering process, because back then the so called filtering process didn’t have so many loopholes. It wasn’t a case of having to explain every single moment prior to an application, it was more an issue of whether or not you had skills for said application.

I’ve sent out many resumes since then. I’ve changed and tweaked a piece of paper until it no longer feels like me. We must now tell people how we’ve boosted sales, ensured high levels of productivity or demonstrated exceptional leadership. The funny thing is… There’s only so many jobs where you can pinpoint those things. Exceptional leadership – one ought to be in somewhat of a supervising position (one way or the other). But we’re not all bosses. High levels of productivity or increased sales? When you’re at the bottom of the food chain, no one tells you if something you do every day boosts sales or attracts new customers. I wouldn’t know if I helped bring in more customers for the last bar I worked at; but I know my boss sure did make me feel like I was barely scraping the bottom of the barrel. Bygones.

The curriculum vitae is now the business of ‘getting in’. A few years ago, a small gap between experiences meant either someone who is lazy, or someone with an exceptional life story – and interviewers wanted to make the difference beyond looking at a piece of scrap paper. In 2014, anything longer than 2 months automatically makes you ineligible for any job – it’s a sign you can’t commit to an employer. Not that employers offer the same courtesy. In the era of individualisation, we’re now reduced to 2 A4 pages in which we must include all our sale-boosting, achievement-boasting experiences, somehow managing to highlight the ones we need for a particular job application (tailoring your CV, they say…). Some people don’t have the luxury of pursuing only experiences that could translate into that. And somehow, that makes them less than anybody else.

The business of ‘getting in’ is just as political and economical as many other endeavours. The pressure each industry puts on young people trying to survive/make something/get somewhere can be debilitating. But if you don’t get in, you’re left scraping the bottom of the barrel. Somehow I wonder if that’s not a better alternative after all.

*Credit where credit is due. The business of getting in, as well as the nepotism crack are referenced from the Gilmore Girls.

Taylor Walker - why you so sucky.

Last year in May, I was broke. I was finishing my first year of uni and I was looking at being unemployed and bored all summer long. On one of their open recruitment days, a Taylor Walker pub manager thought I could work in her pub, despite having never had any experience with food establishments. That was nice of her. I thought she could smell the desperation in my voice while I talked myself up in the interview, but I was a little child back then. Little did I know what was going to happen over the next nine months.

I started my job as a 'team player'- they don't really label you 'waitress' or 'bartender', at least not to your face, anyway. At first, it was all okay. Day in, day out, it seemed to be an alright routine, albeit slightly boring and predictable. Shitty customers, a boss who doesn't care enough to even yell at you, supervisors that had to take the fall for basically everything and team players trying to make the best out of a not-so-good situation. Over time, however, being overworked became a notion of the every day. Six or seven day weeks were the norm by the time July came.

But hold on. They pay you more than minimum wage, so of course you ought to drop to your knees and kiss the ground Taylor Walker walks on. Really? (They do pay more than minimum wage, that's not an ironic throw on my part)

By August, I had had enough. Or so I thought. One of my favourite deputy managers ever (thank you, Tess, you were brilliant!) was getting a transfer to another Taylor Walker pub and she offered me a job by her side. Naturally, I said yes, because at the time I figured it was just my current boss that was exploitative and basically, a superior arse.

There I go to work for yet another Spirit Pub, this time in the heart of Central London. I get stuck doing the early breakfast shift, which was absolutely fine for me, as I was bound to start school in September and definitely needed as much time to study as possible. So, I settled on a part-time schedule and after a little while of trying to intimidate me, my (new) current boss seemed to settle down and deal. It's not like I didn't work hard or anything.

Three days a week, nine, ten hour shifts with no break for lunch. On an average, I maybe got my (legal!) lunch break once a week. I was constantly asked to stay overtime, despite not having had breaks. I was constantly expected to work harder than anyone else because I was leaving in the middle of the day (my shifts ended around 4pm when pub activity goes up in flames - usually).

One would say I should have left then. Is this treatment worth any amount of money? Obviously not. I was mad, I raised my concerns with another deputy manager and I got told to stop complaining - I was only working part-time. Well, I didn't know part-time workers had to be treated far worse because they had other obligations along this one job. I didn't leave. I put it behind me and like Lorelai Gilmore (wisest fictional character I know), I told myself life was full of dealing with little people and I had to be strong and thick skinned.

Last week I was told nobody cares about my legal break and that I should do more work. I'm not an arrogant prick, I know exactly when I work hard and when I'm slacking off. I'm not a 19yr old waitress just dropped in the world of hard work. So I snapped. I realised that no job in the world is worth the daily feeling of being useless, despite having hard evidence that I wasn't. I worked hard according to my job description, I was always a good team player, I offered pertinent suggestions based on my direct experience with customers - all ignored, by the way.

I thought I'd just quit this job because of all the mobbing, intimidating and sexual harassment that managers (small and big) like to dish out on a daily basis. But actually, I think I kind of realised no one should empower these people anymore than they already are: by an economy that forces immigrants (a staggering majority in Taylor Walker pubs) to take jobs where employers motivate through fear and intimidation; by the nature of the job - most people working in pubs have to always look good, as you're considered the face of said pub (though no customer actually cares); by higher supervisors who only care about their yearly bonuses. Why should anyone endorse this treatment of people who don't know any better? Most of my colleagues don't speak English enough to ask for directions, let alone read any official document about employee's rights in a workplace.

Yes, I understand that people need jobs. I realise the cruel truth of day to day life: sometimes you have to take a lot of shit to get where you want to be. And to an extent, I agree. But when a job is just a (bad) job, I choose to walk away. Yes, my boss turned the situation around and blamed me. Yes, he probably felt good about himself. I told him that I should leave anyway, if I was such a drain for the company. I know a complaint with official institutions wouldn't stand a chance, because psychological abuse at work is really difficult to prove. When faced with a mountain of irregularities I can't change, I walked out on my boss, my colleagues, my friends (some of them). I'm not sorry. I wake up not dreading the days anymore. It's a huge relief, although not even close to healing the real wound: months of psychological abuse leave a mark that's hard to take care of, even in the days of Prozac and psychotherapy.

Already gone.

2013.

Taking stock of past events is a favourite pastime around New Years Eve, probably since the concept was invented. It seems almost like a rite of passage into the new year. We like to think about what went well, but mosly we like to look back on things we'd like to change. And then we make resolutions and we toast ourselves at midnight, quietly promising that things will be different after the turn of the clock. Like that second is magical. It'll change even us... Or so we hope.

2013 was definitely a weird year. I've had my fair share of disappointments and oddly enough, I'm ending it on a completely different note than how I started. Proof that the supersition about ending a year the same way you started it is nothing more than hot air. Last year I counted down the seconds in a happy drug-fuelled haze and this year... Well, let's just say that neither happy, nor drug-fuelled will happen. It's more contemplative than anything else.

I finally got over the fear of writing for publications and managed to publish for my school newspaper. Nothing big, definitely not major, but a step forward for my personal development. Hooray. I'm still nowhere near where I want to be, but they say something about every journey beginning with a small step. So I think I'm on the right path.

Attacked by a small bout of depression when the cold season hit, I realised that my rose-colored glasses were just an illusion. I've spent almost an entire year hoping that the happy tint will rub off the glasses and splash into life. And then I crashed and finally saw that that's something that belongs in magic shows. Life is more of a cautionary tale than it is a fairy tale, and towards the end of 2013, I'm learning to deal with that. Key word: still ongoing. Love is not a universal cure for anything; love is a modern invention for people to fool themselves into believing that any other person could ever give a damn about someone else. There's practical and then there's insane. And love falls completely under the second category.

Another year, gone. Life always hands us the same things until we learn. I'm still a fool. I'm still trying to convince myself that life is more than just 'getting on with it'. But I haven't learnt this year either. Maybe next year.

Dream a little dream.

She came into my life when she didn't want to. She came into my life when I didn't want her, but needed her nonetheless, even without knowing it. She stole my heart, this pathetic life-giving organ I'd put a padlock on and decided it was forever out of business. Forever wasn't long enough. She breaks it, swirls it, makes me choke on it. I'm scared my poor little heart won't take it. I'm scared every day. I'm scared of losing her, of keeping her and of everything in between. I'm terrified of this being the right thing, the IT people spend lives and fortunes to find, but which itself elusive to most. I'm horrified to wonder what if she is the one for me, but eventually she'll outgrow me and leave me behind.

And then, she smiles. She doesn't say much, but when she does, my fears melt away. Her person surrounds me with joy. Painful jolts of consciouness, letting me know I'm alive. I can't even remember the last time I was paranoid about something. I also don't recollect ever feeling so sure and unsure at the same time. Like in any given moment, I'm required to take a leap of faith, but that there is an invisible cord making sure I'll land safely.

Who knows. She's fast asleep in bed. Her breathing is regular and calm, her expression peaceful, the corners of her mouth slightly turned upwards, in a weak smile.

I hope she dreams of me.

Wanderlust.

May. Saturday morning. I’m sitting here reading a travelling blog whilst trying to ignore my daily to-do list. The woman on the front cover is a typically 20-something American, who just happened to leave her home in order to ‘slowly and thoroughly’ (her words, not mine) explore the world. I go down the page and it slowly dawns on me that her life seems quite appealing. To just leave everything behind and make your way through the world, as days go by… It definitely has a magical air to it. Maybe just today, cause I have job applications to get back to and list of newspaper contacts to pursue.

But still. I often think that it shouldn’t be this hard. Putting everything behind and just embracing other cultures and countries, not having to worry about what will happen when (and if) you finally decide to return home. Such is life, though. Instead, we must travel on holidays and in between, we must make sure that our resumes are consistent enough, our haircuts are conventional enough, our lives are bland enough. I still believe it shouldn’t be this hard. And then I stop to think about why I’m paralysed in the human circle that is ‘normal’.

Sometimes I think it’s the lack of courage. I certainly am not brave enough to face the world while not knowing what’s going to happen next week. Despite it having a Jack Kerouac sense to it, which is entirely tempting and even possible at times. Or maybe it’s the bundle of responsibilities that comes with moving away from home and having to fend for one’s self. As much as I want to hit the first airport that I happen to see, I keep thinking that I still need to finish school, get a ‘proper’ job (what is that, even) and generally, just figure out what life is; what my life is. And then I catch a glimpse of her, and she’s doing something mundane like reply work emails or talking to her parents, and I understand that among all the other things, she’s also keeping me here. Not consciously, because if I wanted to leave she’d be the first one to wish me a safe flight. And then she’d get lost in the midst of memories that I’d eventually accumulate. That is definitely not something I want. Ideally, I’d drag her with me, so we can both experience the world and get to know ourselves and each other in the process. Even more than we’re doing it now, living together. They say travelling with another person is a sure way to know if a relationship is for real. Among many other things.

But then, if I press the matter even further, I get to the bottom of the problem. The only thing stopping me is me. I want to travel the world, but I also want to make sure I get to do something with my life. That when I reach my old age, I won’t be sitting in a chair, wishing I had stayed put and built a future, instead of waiting for it to happen. So in the end, it turns out that my own worst enemy is just my very ‘normal’ desire to belong in a society that ever so often shuns me out and calls me abnormal. Mindgames.

In the meantime, I’ll keep reading other people’s travel blogs, occasionally feeling a tinge of jealousy, but knowing that ultimately, I’m only doing what I really want to do. Off to my applications I go.

On reading between the lines.

They say reading between the lines is vital. One can always learn more from what is not being told, rather than spoken words. Perhaps it's true, or maybe it's just a ploy to cause the overuse of one's brain, thus giving people an occupation. It's a fine art, knowing when you're 'reading between the lines' and when you're just overthinking every word, every gesture, every pause.

I've always been gifted in this department. It has always been extremely easy for me to read people. Interpreting body language and anticipating certain moves or reactions have been a part of me for as long as I can remember. It was never particularly interesting for me, I just seemed to be good at it. So good, that now I can even guess what strangers will do, if I have a few crucial details. People I've never met, seen only through the eyes of my close friends, they all become predictable.

I thought it was a good thing. For years, I told myself that knowing people like the back of my hand can't ever be a bad thing. But here's the thing that no one told me. With people's predictability also comes the inability to be surprised. I walk around knowing more or less what people are going to say or do and that takes away some of the fun of finding out things as I go along. I can't even remember the last time I've been surprised or shocked about something. And as much as I want to say that it's for the better, it really isn't.

For being able to predict something, particularly something disappointing, doesn't actually take away the feeling. Being exceptionally good at reading between the lines doesn't take away the pain of being abandoned by friends. Or the knowledge that people you love don't exactly feel the same, although they do care about you a lot. Not even the few moments of happiness when you wake up and she cuddles you in the same way as she always does. Knowing how to read people helps with expectations. Because when people end up doing exactly as predicted, you find out whether or not the expectation was really there.

Sometimes, it's best if it's not. Other times, expectations are good. If you get hurt, at least you had a clue. Even though it doesn't hurt any less simply because you 'read it between the lines'. The anguish is still there.

A Marrakesh dream.

On a cold Friday morning, after spending a few hours in an impersonal London airport, we finally boarded a short three hour flight to North Africa. Visiting Morocco has always been a dream of mine, ever since I was able to read a world map. But then, what place isn't...? The excitement had been bubbling for weeks and whilst on the plane, it finally spilt and spawned in expectations of what we would find on another continent.

North Africa is highly different from any other continent I've been on. Marrakesh is the liveliest place I've ever seen and not always in a good way. From the airport, we made our way to the little riad that would host us for the weekend, in hopes to find a home away from home. Which, to an extent, it was. While it didn't have any of the comfort we have at home, it was magical. The winding, dusty, always unpredictable alleyways kept us company as we explored the maze that can only be Marrakesh. The lounge upstairs showed us views of sunsets poets only speak of. The colours, the atmosphere, the life infused into everything as the evening falls... That can only be witnessed in a country so socially repressed as Morocco.

I spent quite a while fighting it all. I'm not so easy going when it comes to holidays, so it took me some time to adjust to being so far out of my comfort zone. So far that it was scary. But I like to think I did it, with her help, of course. I let her guide me through it all and we ended up having a good time, despite the few annoyances we had to deal with.

The old town, the Medina, is an authentic bazaar. You can find anything and everything in these souks, regardless of what you might or might not be looking for. Somehow, things have a way of finding you. The panoramic cafes gave us a chance to see how Moroccans get ready for the entertainment of the night: the food stalls, the people playing different instruments, the ladies offering henna tattooes, the vendors bargaining for every dirham. It is more than just the entertainment of the evening, it's a lifestyle. Even with a stubborn attitude such as mine, resisting anything unfamiliar, I couldn't help but be completely amazed and mesmerized.

It is a poor country by any of the First World's standards. But it has something that we have lost long time ago: pure, authentic liveliness. Seems as though people there live, rather than just exist in an environment. They're not confined by any Western rules, nor the technology we so desperately seek. Far from Marrakesh being uncivilised, though. Yes, men are rather rude and women are often invisible. Yes, the level of cleanliness was far from ideal. But the knowledge that we were walking around in North Africa, exploring a Muslim country, observing and taking in all it had to offer, all that goes beyond any modern rules.

We came back after three short days. But we'd seen Marrakesh, who was simply magical, albeit hard to convince me in the beginning. We saw Ouarzazate, the door to Sahara and it was intriguing to see how people lived there, in an 11th century city, which they have to build and rebuild every year, with new soil. The devotion they have to their religion, their culture and the passion for people is something the Western World has long forgotten. For the better or worse.

P.S. Must remember to take ear plugs next time. The prayer call at 5am is still ringing in my ears! I think that's my only real complaint.

Regulating free press - friend or foe?

Everyone has heard of the Leveson inquiry. Everyone who has any inkling in finding out about the world, that is. Lord Justice Leveson was given an important task in the matter of whether or not the press needs an independent body to slice and dice. The inquiry followed the demise of News of the World, after their royal editor and a private investigator were convincted of illegal interception of phone messages. It seemed to transpire that the media was going rogue in attempts to sell.

Free press. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights states that "everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference, and impart information and ideas through any media regardless of frontiers". This concept is also covered by the same laws as freedom of speech, which gives equal rights to published and spoken opinion. It's probably worth noting that not all states are considered to have freedom of press, as it is a democratic concept not widly popular in totalitatian states such as China or Nepal. That, of course, leads to the concept of censorship, seeing as you can't have one without the other. The democratic ideology of freedom of speech dates back from the Ancient Athens, but it has its limitations, even in the 21st century.

In the case of the result of the Leveson inquiry, introducing an independent royal regulatory body in a country that has valued freedom of speech since the 17th century would probably end in disaster. Sure, the idea behind this is a respectable unbiased organisation, supposedly there to protect people's basic rights to privacy and freedom of speech. But seeing as it has been agreed among the country's main political parties, that is sufficient proof to understand how biased this ideal body would be. Like in any other country, independent of the regime, politics is a source of power and that means that people at the helm of this country can, and will, influence just about everything. It doesn't matter how much they try to convince us their objectives are the welfare of the system, ultimately all is reduced to a battle for power. And that's exactly what politics is. Every politician wants to leave something behind. But in order for them to achieve anything, they need power.

The regulatory body in charge of watching over the freedom of the press will end up in censorship. By applying the simplest of definitions of freedom of speech and censorship, any regulation of the now free press is censorship. Once newspapers and magazines sign on to this, there is no say to what they will or will not be allowed to publish in the future. And what about the Internet? How does the Leveson inquiry apply to a medium designed especially for the freedom of the media? I am in no way arguing that invading people's privacy in order to make the news is excusable. But it seems ridiculous to cripple the very basic definition of 'media' in order to make politics.

Alternative Media.

As I've studied just recently, alternative media is the kind of media that isn't commercially appealing. It isn't the same as radical media, although radical media can be considered alternative (as it doesn't fit into any mainstream area). Alternative media can be different in content, structure, economics and participants, as most well known studies have shown. But this isn't about the media in itself. As I was reading about the principle debate on mainstream and alternative media, it got me thinking about the social rules and order.

Heterosexual relationships are considered, if we apply this notion, to be mainstream. The society acknowledges and facilitates such relationships, because this is what we've come to know as 'normal' and 'expected'. We're brought into this world, we grow up and eventually old, and society expects us to go to school, get married, pop out a baby or five, then grow old with your more-or-less ideal mate. So. Let's take the four different elements that differentiate mainstream from alternative.

1. Participants.
One woman, one man.
2. Structure:
Heterosexual relationship.
3. Economics:
Usually, following the old-fashioned hierarchical pattern, where she earns less than him (if any), mostly in order to not wound the male ego.
3. Content:
Hopefully, those teeny-tiny babies I mentioned in the above paragraph. Maybe a holiday house somewhere mediocre at best. One joint account, holding savings for rainy days. A two-car garage, accompanied by your regular 3 bedroom house somewhere in the suburbs. And mostly nothing to talk about other than finances and brand diapers/cereal. He watches the game, while she sets up the dinner table.

That's socially acceptable. That's what mainstream is and while being utterly wrong, the media actually perpetuates that. Moving on.

Same-sex relationships. Ah, the alternative that this represents. Considered by many the devil incarnate, for it (apparently) breaks marriages and forces children to grow up abused and emotionally scarred. May I be the first one to point out that people in same-sex relationships were also brought up with the same societal rules? But just like alternative (not radical!) media, they may have taken a different path.

1. Participants:
Two people of the same gender. (i.e. two women, or two men)
2. Structure:
Same-sex relationship.
3. Economics:
You'd be surprised. Many people in same sex relationships also feel threatened by their spouse earning more, but we're just not inclined to make such a big deal out of it.
4. Content:
Again, what a surprise. With a slight variation, they too want the same boring things. A house of their liking, a car, some money saved for retirement and maybe even a toddler or two. Coming from a socially oppressed medium though, they will probably have more to talk about. Should they choose to do so.

The coverage in the media has made it quite clear that although same-sex marriage will be legalised (mostly likely), it would never mean the same thing as whatever it means now. I say 'whatever' because I'm fairly sure most people have lost the perspective on this issue and are just following the trend. Some say it's bad? Mainstream it as bad. Some claim it as a good thing? Hooray with the marriage (same-sex) bill.

There is a huge but in this whole thing, though. Most alternative media started out as outlandish and unheard of, but then got picked up by the mainstreamers and turned into something usual, common. Unless you think same-sex relationships are radical (which would mean they aim to change social order), that's exactly what's going to happen to this alternative idea. And then you have to wonder. What are you fighting for or against?

The art of editing.

I recently took part in a creative writing workshop, as part of my mandatory curriculum at a London University. Although I write fiction since I was nine years old, I rarely thought about taking a serious course on it, as it is my personal opinion that one cannot teach writing. You can write, or you simply can't. And thus, I started this workshop a little skeptical, curious to know whether I was right or not. After all, we may all possess imagination, but the skill to put thoughts into words is not as easily acquirable.

I realised soon that rather than being a medium where people learnt how to write, it was more of an editing and self-editing process, all whilst being observed and judged by fellow peers. I say peers, but I often felt like I was sitting in a room with people who had never tried putting pen to paper. Albeit, it must not have been true, as we'd all picked out this particular course and it does involves reading and writing. Not to make myself seem Mary Sue-ish, but I consider years and years of writing proper experience for such an environment. Or at least a starting point.

My story for this project was in no way innovative or outlandish. It merely recounts the events in my character's life, allowing for some development and emotional impact. My editing process involved quite a lot, as I'm not very keen to hear criticism, but I knew I had to learn how to accept it and incorporate it in my writing mechanism. There is no journalist without critique, for sure. In the end, my story got edited for the better, although my characters ended up the very same way I envisioned them at first. However, it was the process I went through along with my characters that caught my attention and has me writing this entry.

I sat in a room with the same twelve people, for several weeks. I watched them come up with ridiculous ideas for stories, stuff with no substance or plots that needed serious work. Furthermore, some of the stories remained as non-lucrative as they'd originally been thought out, but that's beside the point. As we all sat there, Tuesday after Tuesday, criticising each other's work with no knowledge whatsoever of what it means to edit someone's work, I realised it's exactly what we do in life.

We meet someone and we instantly put them in a box, stereotyping them. It's the natural course of life, I suppose. It's what we did in my workshop. My story was about a lesbian couple whose love story ends on a rather painful note, due to traditions and foreign laws. It's meant to make people think that we can't stereotype simply because we don't understand. It got me labelled as the lesbian feminist who thinks it's wrong for women to fight against traditions, and also as a weird Eastern European because I chose to represent a legal process that most people never encounter. Not to mention I got told it's so much easier to write from a gay perspective. It really isn't.

It's odd. Sitting in a room with people you've never met before, listening to their critical remarks and realising they're not actually talking about your story, but you. Writing is personal, we all know this. But it doesn't have to be all we writers are. There is more to the writer than the writing in itself, and it would be nice if people remembered that before putting you in a box. They may confine you there forever.

No parade for lost souls.

People have as much power as you give them. I may have given certain people too much of me and thus, I find myself stuck in a bit of a rut. Socially retarded, I said to her today. She's just as great as ever, of course, even when I'm annoying and act like a spoiled brat. She's always great.

I'm not that great. I know I have to let go of the past to make the most out of the amazing present I'm currently living, and ultimately to make a better future. What is it that they say....? The best way to predict the future is to create it. I hope they're right, because I've always been idealistic like that. Perhaps thinking I can create something so existentially big is a foolish thing. Let the dreamers dream, I say.

It's been over half a year. Round the same time that I found myself in the most rewarding and challenging relationship, I also learnt the hard way that people are fickle sheep. They all claim to know what's right and wrong, but when it comes to actually listening to the facts, many discovered they had a deaf ear. It doesn't even matter if it was the right or wrong ear. I didn't expect that. Is it why I'm still stuck over what happened?

I swore I'd get over it and I have. You don't matter to me at all anymore. I don't feel the need to stick your face in a wall when I see you. I don't avoid places we used to go together, simply because you don't count at all. I've pushed myself forward and I now have a meaning, a purpose in life, a direction. All along, you were holding me back.
...No. I let you hold me back.

Am I sorry? Not exactly. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be here today. And while I feel stuck and without a way out, I wouldn't change it for the world. I bet it sucks to know I found the happiness of my life because you decided to turn everyone against me. Which, you have. It doesn't matter. What matters is she makes me happier than I've ever been. She gives a different meaning to every day. She challenges me, she changes me, she makes me see who I want to be. And who I want to be with.

I have given you too much power. But I'm taking it back now. Some live to have fun. Others live to make something out of this life. I'd like to think that, as much as I love to have fun, my desire to leave something behind is a lot bigger than the need to drink.

I think the trick is... Find someone that makes you feel complete without defining you as a person. Afterwards, pieces of life's puzzle seem to fall in the right places, somehow. I've yet to fully understand how. I don't think I want to know. Not everything has an explanation. Just like not everyone has a bright future, some people are meant to be average while others are destined for greatness.

Disclaimer: Yes, this is aimed at someone in particular. It's also a life lesson in itself. An experience that redefined my ideas about people and society. One that opened my eyes a little bit more.
This is also the last time I plan to think or mention this said event. I'm locking it on this page, for all eternity. Or for all of blogspot's eternity, at least. Farewell. Tomorrow is a new day.

Say hello to goodbye.

For whatever reason, tonight I find myself thinking about different types of relationships and how everything that goes down between two people can easily be resumed to one thing: a power struggle. Someone has to have the last word, someone needs to be loved a little bit more, someone always ends up giving more and receiving less...

In a social situation, I find it depends on certain factors, such as gender, race, class and whatever else sociecty concocted as 'normal' and 'appropriate'. Slightly different now than it used to be, as the fight for equality in all aspects has carried on for years and has managed to achieve some great results. (See the recent progress USA made with making same sex marriage legal in a bunch of new states. And that's just one example).

Romantically, it baffles me. Of course, people in a relationship will be different, will have different characters and personalities and will want certain things individually. Things that may or may not coincide with anyone else's wishes. And that's acceptable. Who wants to date someone that just manages to stick along for the ride and has nothing going on for themselves? Not a very pretty picture. But the very fact that two people find themselves wishing to intertwine their lives in more than one way, should mean that they aspire to the same things. Sure, compromises can be made along the way. After all, we're only human and we'll all agree to disagree sometimes. But when did that turn into just one person making the compromise all the time? Why is it just one person that has to sit by the phone and wait for a sign? Why can't both people miss each other equally?

But I guess the most important question that we should ask ourselves is... In either place we find ourselves during our 'dating' life. Why do we let ourselves drawn into someone's gravity with such force that we end up completely forgetting we are our own person? And on the same accord, why would we want to string someone along if we know we don't feel as passionately as the other person?

Seems to me people need a clearer definition of what they're looking for in a relationship. People shouldn't get into one if they're not ready to give as much as someone else is offering them. If one doesn't need what someone is willing to give, walk away. Just walk away and don't look back. Better safe than sorry.

Check mate.

When coming out turns into a bigger deal than what you initially thought it would be.

A scenario that seems familiar to probably everyone who's had to come out as gay or lesbian (or anything else in the lgbt spectrum), particularly to parents or relatives.

I didn't really think that I could get in a relationship where everything would be perfect. Not that I'm a spitting image for perfection, or because she's in any way even close. (Well... She is in my eyes, but if we stop to look at things objectively, no one is ever perfect. We may strive for it or look for it in others, but that's about it.) But I did. I'm now 25 and I've reached a point in life when I can genuinely say that this relationship, this school, a job and all the future plans I have are exactly what I need to go on day in, day out. Yes, it gets tough, but life sure as hell isn't easy. It never has been for me, so I don't ever expect to give in and lay down for me. I wouldn't really have it that way.

And then, with recent events, I got to this shocking conclusion. My current relationship is going okay from all social and personal perspectives, but is threatened by cultural differences. Barriers that I can never hope to bring down, for centuries of traditions and customs stand before me. In the 21st century, I stand alone having to defend my close-to-perfect relationship. All because it's not 'appropriate'. And sure, according to said traditions, it really isn't. One is expected to grow up, get married (to someone appropriate, mind you!), pop out a baby, get a boring career path and eventually, grow old. Do what is typical and expected, as I've just been told a mere few moments ago.

She struggles with it. She's caught between what's expected of her and what she really wants to do. And I can't be selfish and complain, because a couple of years ago I fled my home country due to a similar situation. I sometimes still find myself caught between someone's expectations and the realisation that I no longer need or should fulfill it. However. I also realise not everyone is me. And while we are the same in so many other aspects, we clearly differ in this one. That's quite alright, although I wish she didn't have to go through this particular battlefield. I remember it left me scarred and broken and while I seem to have it all together now, I really don't. I just pretend and hope that every day will end on a somewhat good note. And for the last few months, every single day has been like that. Thanks to her.

But she's not the appropriate one. Or, well. Maybe I should put it the other way around. I'm not appropriate. I'm not right. I'm not one of them. Seems like this year has been the time for people to constantly remind me of my origin and how it affects the way society sees me. Whether it's the Western or Eastern one. I don't seem to fit in either hemisphere, funnily enough.

So, check mate. Life, one - Cristina, nil. Once again. I don't know how this is going to end. I don't know if it is going to end. I can't give it too much thought, or I'll talk myself out of it. All of it.

In retrospective.

I dreamed I stopped dreaming...

25 years went in a blink of an eye. I find myself living in a city I once adored, but now simply see as 'home'. It's true what they say, we get comfortable with the things we have and take them for granted. I often wonder if I would long for London should I move elsewhere. I probably would. Or maybe I would learn to call some other land home, leaving this wonderful city behind, with all its glory and history and culture. Forgotten names, forgotten faces... But the memories would always follow me.

I've fallen out with just about everyone in my life since I moved here. Seems that I boarded a fast train to wherever life is meant to take me, while everyone else is enjoying a ride I can't be a part of. I've lost my ticket when I decided that my dreams and goals were far more important than all the effort it takes to entertain certain social interactions. Friendships aren't meant to be this hard. They aren't made to break you and cause you stress over and over again. And I guess I learnt to let go when it gets too tough, for I have no energy to waste on people. For the same reason, I suppose, I've avoided romantic relationships up until now. It's hard to find someone who can understand my need and desire to get somewhere and the fact that I am willing to sacrifice mostly everything for it. I still struggle with it sometimes, although things are pretty much amazing right now. Occasionally though, I find myself screaming at the top of my voice. Some things make sense, while others are completely devoid of anything remotely sane.

I do long for human interaction, sadly. Like my mum used to say to me, ages ago, when I was merely a teenager fresh off my secondary school's desks, 'people can't live alone'. It gets lonely at the top, she'd add. I'm mostly okay when in the outside world, for whatever's worth. I'm really okay when I get to spend time with her, for she genuinely makes me happy. Happier than I've been in a really long time. I'm still okay when I'm left to my own devices and I get to do my thing, without anyone thinking I'm a weirdo. And then there comes a time when I'm just not okay anymore. Like now. On the eve of my 25th birthday, I'm having a little moment. Nothing is fine, everything is wrong and broken, people are annoying, I am annoying. Everything just isn't right, and it is at the same time. I fear I'm on my way to getting everything I wanted and for whatever reason, I want to leave it all behind and run away. Life is confusing, yes. Especially when one tries so hard to find faults in a plan that seems to be working. As best as a laid out plan can work, at the very least.

25 years, gone. The last three have been most rewarding, although filled with a lot of hard times, hard work and everything in between. I'm most grateful to everyone that came and went, for they all shaped up what I always believed in. I'm not one for clinging onto people. I don't get attached, I'm cold and heartless, socially awkward and always goal oriented. People always leave, anyway. I'll stick to going places and seeing things, even if it means getting there on my own. And I'll kill this nostalgic sadness, for I don't want it to bring me down. After everything that happened in the past, it's safe to say people have always managed to disappoint me. And I'm sure I've disappointed them, too.

And that's just a-okay. I'm keeping the memories.

Not an illusion.

Someone asked me the other day if I saw myself with her for a long time. I mumbled something about hoping it was the case, and then went back to work like I didn't just pass judgment on my entire future. In a blink of an eye, I didn't even consider an alternative. Crazier things have happened, I know...

On my way home, sitting on a half empty bus, watching London's nightlights go by, I surrendered to the fear that was slowly creeping in. For the longest minute, my head screamed at me loud and clear. Future plans, holidays planned months in advance, conversations about potentially growing old together... She's behind me on everything I want to do and calls me on my bullshit every single time. I have nowhere to hide when she's around me. And that's a little scary, perhaps even worth my mind yelling at me.

I did manage to keep my head cool and eventually the screaming subsided, as it should be. She makes me fall in love with her time and time again and that's exactly what I was looking for in a significant other. No, she's not perfect and I'm far from it, but that's what makes us two completely different people with somewhat similar life views. And while our lives apart have been significantly different from every point of view, customs or belief systems, it seems legit that we're now making plans for our future together. It feels right. Like a jigsaw puzzle falling together at the right time.

I always say we should just start with today. It seems to have worked for the last three months and it's given me memories to last a lifetime. She gave me those moments and for that, the future can wait. The present is just too good to lose.

Keeper for life.

I slowly trace your skin with my fingers and silently let out a sigh of relief. You're fast asleep and don't know I'm quietly wishing this would never end. This night is no different than the others we've spent together over the last three months, but somehow my desire burns brighter and hotter on this cold September hour.

You know by now. I've made it quite clear, although you're always cautious with your words and don't give anything away. At times, I can feel it, but I long to hear it, for it doesn't seem real otherwise. Is that stupid? To wish to hear things you know they're there, but aren't quite sure of...?

As soon as the morning comes, the magic of this moment will be gone and we'll go back to our mundane, day-to-day issues, which I'm more than happy to do. As long as you leave the house and come back to me, it's okay...

Sometimes, I wish you didn't make me so happy. Happiness is so fleeting that I'm continuously scared of it. I enjoy it, but I can't help but wait for the turn of the wheel. I know, you said it: it won't make me any less unhappy if I keep waiting for it. But it's not that. I just don't think I deserve it.
The happiness, that is. The joy you bring me seems unreal, it makes my whole spirit go up in flames. And I burn, oh how I burn.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not sitting here waiting for this to end and the sadness to start. I'm also done with being cautious and guarded. I'm all in. All in. I just don't know if you are. And, like many other things I can't control, that is okay, too.