All for posterity.

People talk to me a lot. Whether they do it because I seem approachable and relatable (which I highly doubt, since I’m always wearing my ‘fuck off’ expression) or because they just feel like I’m trustworthy and therefore easy to chat with, fact is they talk to me a lot. I’m on a train to Central London and somewhere between Balham and the centre of the universe, someone will sit down and begin chatting about what a wonderful, starry night it is. Or when I’m in line at the supermarket, they’ll let me know my cans of coke are 2 for 1 and then immediately revert to how blue my eyes are. You get my drift.

I always talk back. Always. I may not smile as politely as they’d like me to, but I say something back, so as to not let these people with a horrible first (and usually, last) impression. Hell, if they say something really nice or interesting, I’ll even smile and pretend I care. Why pretend? Because extremely rarely it happens that a random person can actually strike a spark of interest in me. I’m the human personification of a sponge for knowledge. So chances are I already know those cans are on offer and I have looked at the shade of blue in my irises. But I smile and nod, because it makes people feel good and then they go out onto the street and in a world of sadness and war and sorrow, they feel good for about 30 seconds. But hey, that’s better than nothing.

However, what particularly strikes me as interesting is those rare occasions when I get to meet someone remotely fascinating and we start up a conversation while waiting in line to a pharmacy or trying to get tickets to the up coming tour of some band that shall remain unnamed. They ask where I’m from, because I, no matter how hard I try to blend in, don’t look English. Yes, I may speak the language quite perfectly, but I will always look foreign, despite living here for two years now. I usually say ‘Eastern Europe’ because it’s anonymous and it’s how I would like to stay, for the time being. And… Three. Two. One.

Their eyes begin to shine. Actually, wait. There’s like a hint of glitter in their look and they give me a once over, so as to let me know they ‘understood’. At first, I was puzzled and didn’t bother to ask what exactly it was that they suddenly knew so well. But as it kept on happening, I eventually had to give in and ask. And I hate asking. My country of origin seems to be giving away details about myself that I never bring in a random, casual conversation. It tells strangers that it’s okay for me to get married and beaten up, because that’s the rumour. It says that I’m some kind of sex freak, because they were in the capital once and two hookers blew their mind away. It screams that we’re stupid, simply because the country’s systems are at a lower value and people running it are old fashioned and it’s still customary for men to buy off young girls to marry into their wealthy families. Because the latter families don’t have what it takes to send their daughters to school and give them a chance to proper education and knowledge.

It doesn’t tell anyone that we learn in school what others never learn, despite following an education path for years in a row. It never once told them that I come from the country that invented penicillin or the first aeroplane. It doesn’t speak about great landscapes and amazing legends, fantastic architecture styles or really good food. But it does say I should get down on my knees in an alleyway or become a doormat for my future partner.

And it’s sad. I used to be ashamed by my roots and pretend I was born in a no name country, because of all those things. But I realised after being away for so long that it’s not in a country to make one’s name, it’s in our characters and what we choose to believe and do. It’s our choices that determine these things you get to know about one person, not where they were born. I’m now proud to come where I come from. I’ve learnt to appreciate the good things and take the bad along with them, because there’s no right without wrong, no beauty without ugliness and no happiness without sadness.

You speak in a dead, dead language.

Dear Jane,

Today I am breaking up with you.

How long has it been now? Eh, I guess it's too much to recount, too many memories we can't revive and one too many sad days we really shouldn't bring back. A little bit of this and a little bit of that, and somehow we make our way to the same sticky ending: the one that makes me suffer the most, because it hurts so much I can taste blood. But isn't this how life really goes? There comes a time we must let go of the things that hurt us because we know deep down we deserve to be happy. Yes...

Of course there's been good times, too. Perhaps far much more than bad, but it's always the negative that keeps nagging at us, destroying the small glimpses of raw, powerful happiness. Am I scared? I'd be an idiot not to admit it, because it leaves me petrified. I am now choosing to leave behind the only person that I've known for as long as I can remember. But I have to... Because you're selfish and impatient, childish and impossible at times, and it's hard to accept that I need to break up with you in order to find myself again. A new me, obviously. One that's all grown up and ready to face the big, bad world without having you for a comfortable, familiar cushion. I'm scared I'll fall to the ground and bruise my knees and there won't be anyone to wipe off the trickling trail of blood, that I'll have to hold the cry in and bit my lip until it's sore because there won't be anyone to laugh it off and tell me it's going to be alright.

But that would be lying. Telling me things will be okay and actually witnessing that...Huge difference. And it never seems to come true. I've waited so many years in hopes that I won't have to do this. I've lied and cheated and pretended. All in vain. As it happens, I have to break up with you. I have to learn that childhood is a warm place we all have to leave at one point, but I choose to keep a small part of it hidden in my soul, because I never want to stop being a kid. I never want to stop being happy for the silliest of things, or desire to fall in love until my knees bend under the strength of someone's smile. I want to be able to jump in a bed with my shoes on and still remember when I was a kid and my mum used to shout at me to stop. What I don't want anymore is the guilt. The fact that I need to stop making excuses for myself is just a side effect. In the end, I choose to take you with me wherever I go and no matter where I end up. It just won't be the same.

I don't know how to say goodbye to you. I'm not good at things I don't want to do. Shall I pretend I don't care... I could. But I won't, not today. Because today. I'm breaking up with you. I'm letting you go and I'm setting myself free.


I'm setting myself free of me. Goodbye, Jane.

Something to lose.

Today, I'm wearing my coffee stained jeans. The ones I'd tucked at the back of my wardrobe and had to pull out in a rush this morning. In which, of course, I forgot all about the fateful stain. It's barely noticeable and since I'm not doing anything important, not like the world will see it. Or my jeans. Or me in my jeans. But I was wondering how old this particular stain was and if it'll come out in the wash. And then, my mind drifted onto more spiritual subjects. Doesn't it always...

How come people come into our lives and smear it all over, only to leave us more feverish than if we had the flu? And I wish they'd give us the recipe for removing these marks. I don't want to carry a stain of disappointment because I let down my parents and didn't become a doctor. I don't need my heart to be like a puzzle of stains thanks to all the people that broke it and left me breathless and feeling dirty, carrying around the small pieces needed to assemble the organ back. Like red wine on a white shirt. Bloody and impossible to remove. Then, there's always those patches from friends, little scrapings of feelings that brush onto me and never leave me. Some good, some bad. Some unforgettable and some I wish they'd never crossed my path.

Of course, perhaps the smudges I really hate are the ones of disappointment towards myself. That I may never become a journalist, because I'm too afraid to put myself out there. That I never learned photography, despite loving it. Or that I never had the courage to go after what I really wanted, because I always thought it wasn't for me. And so the days go by and I live in regret, when all I ever wanted was to be free of this particular feeling. I don't like regret, for it makes me wallow in self pity and contemplate a little too much the troubles of life. And that's when we forget to live. When we're too busy thinking of what might have been. Would we even try to change it, even if we could? Maybe the most courageous ones of us would.

We wear patches of feelings and shadows of the past, all on our hearts. They all make sure to shape us into the people that we are in the present, and we have to live with it until more stains come and hit us, like blotches of paint. Like the world is filled with artists meant to create our painting. They come, they splash, they leave us to deal with the aftermath. But like this coffee stain I'm proudly wearing on my right leg, what stains will eventually come out and which of them will remain forever, like tattoos...?

Come into my world.

I am a dreamer. I like to envision things the way I'd like them to happen, only to complain later on that such things were never possible. The one tiny detail that always escapes my mind is that I actually need to take action and make something happen. Action needs movement, or so they say...

Sometimes, I act on it. Too soon, and then it falters and dies, leaving me wondering why. Too late, and it breaks my heart because I could have done it sooner and ended up in a different place, but realising at the same time that everything happens for a reason. It being my broken heart....? I often wonder. Other times, I choose to watch things unfold from afar. Like a spectator. My life unveils in front of me like on a stage and I find myself criticising the main character, which is... (big surprise) me. I think of all the better lines I could have written and I leave the theatre with regret.

It confounds me. It comforts me, at the same time. Having a broken heart because of something I didn't do or didn't say is familiar. So much that I often long for it in the very few glimpses of happiness I get. I always say I want to see change in the world and in my life, but I cling so tightly to the same feelings, things, photographs and memories... Like I was branded and these are all ink under my skin. Can't change it.

But here's the funny thing. Why would anyone want to change anything? All the problems and issues and experiences and bad days, they all mean something. Along all the good that happened throughout my life, I've always taken the bad, too. Because I'm a dreamer. And I dream of a day when my eyes won't cry blood. I dream of you. Every day, until I get the chance to make it real. Until then, I dream of you. Because I'm a dreamer.

Time marches on.

At the age of 24, I hardly know what life is anymore. I’m supposed to be enjoying it and making the most of it, but all I do is sit at home and wallow in self pity. I’m tired. I feel like it doesn’t matter anymore, like I don’t matter and I simply wish to disappear. If I were to evaporate as if I had never even existed, it would be best… I’d like to say I’m sorry, but that would be a lie. I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry I want to die. I’m not sorry my dreams don’t matter to me anymore. I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m not. I can’t feel anything but this disgusting, paralysing fear that won’t let me see past it. Like I’m hitting an invisible wall every time I try.

I’m so tired. I pretend a lot. I make my friends believe I’m okay. I’m a compulsive liar. I’m not okay. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again. But to the world, I’m fine. I party like it’s 1999, I flirt with girls and cry over the one I really like, but can’t have. I fantasize about going back to school and finally being on my way to where I always wanted to be. But I don’t know what I want anymore. Some days, I hope to god I won’t wake up in the morning. Others, very few and far in between, I actually wake up and feel a little bit better. Not entirely okay, but I keep telling myself that if a said day was better than before, then ‘okay’ has to be somewhere around the corner. It never is. I can’t remember the last time I was genuinely happy. A day when I didn’t stop to think about everything that’s so very wrong with my life and how big of a failure I am. Have I ever been happy? No, really. I went to school, graduated, had relationships, problems with family, a shitty childhood, met my favourite boyband, moved to the city of my dreams, finally accepted who I was…. And I can’t think of one day when I was just happy. Not one.

I think that’s my biggest issue. I focus so much on what happened before, trying to find a moment of happiness, so I can finally realise that I can and should try to be happy. That I should get out of bed even when I don’t want to. That I need a purpose and motivation to fulfil all of my dreams, big or little. But I just can’t. I can’t even say what’s stopping me other than…. Well, me. I feel so disconnected from the world, from myself, from everything that once mattered. I’m just throwing it all away and for today, it’s okay. I can’t fight it anymore. Tonight I want to lay down and never wake up. Cause maybe, just maybe, that would stop this heartache I feel every day when I’m taking one more step away from what I want and what I could do with my life. Perhaps. Such is life, I guess.

Paper Heart.

Last night I saw her again. She talked to me and in a whisper of mundane questions, she managed to take away everything I've ever feared. Her smile set my world on fire with the power of a thousand stars and for a moment in time, I was genuinely happy. Not happy - what - if, but happy - happy. And it felt amazing to be able to ignore all the petty problems. With every twirl of her hand, she cast away my worries, replacing them with bittersweet bliss. For a little while, she was mine...

I'll take the sweet pain of knowing she won't ever be truly mine, just for evenings like the last one. In a room full of people, no one else matters to me. I hate how much I've empowered this beautiful soul with every weapon she needs to bring me down on my knees. But I now know there is no other way. She really had me at "hello".

Everything but me.

Are the ‘old ways’ making a comeback? How many times have you browsed your facebook page only to realise that many of your former high school classmates are now married and with children? Or at least in a long term, very serious relationship. People as young as 24 (such as myself) already sure of the person they want to spend eternity with. Or at least a tiny fraction of it, this lifetime.

It seems to me that only yesterday I was in high school, having a so-called serious conversation with my then best friend about the many challenges life would face us with in the next few years. Of course, the big stepping stones back then were getting our high school diploma and getting into a good college. It was pretty much unanimous, though. Most people our age wanted the same things: a career first and then (maybe) a family. We all wanted fame and success more than anything. We never had conversations about diapers and pacifiers, it was always about offices and cars, planes and expensive restaurants.

Years went by and while we all scattered around the world, I always thought we were united in that one thought: the idea of making something of ourselves. Whilst browsing this social network the other day, I got nostalgic and thought I’d check up on my old friends. People I’ve long lost real contact with. But by befriending them on facebook, I could still keep in touch, reminisce about our golden era and whatnot. Little did I know I was about to get quite the shock. At least half of my former classmates are now married. Some of them have children. Not babies, not toddlers. Children. Old enough to hold a pen in their little hands and scribble their name. And they all babble about the ‘joys of life’, their marriage, offsprings and quiet Sunday lunches with the in-laws.

After the initial jaw-drop moment, I got to thinking. The other half is most likely doing exact what I’m doing. Finding a purpose to life, beyond marital bliss. Building a career, for surely it’s far more important to leave something behind you. Other than a child bearing your surname. Or maybe it’s just me…? Have I gotten so lost in the last five years that I’ve completely missed the point of life? Have I been too blind to notice the little things? In searching for our happiness, it seems that our high school ideas were easily far-fetched. For some. I can’t help but wonder, though. Are they all grown up and happy, whereas I’m still swarming in the childhood pond? Am I grown up enough to realise and admit that for each and every one of us, happiness holds a different definition? Are my old friends still longing for fame and success, despite having the marital status?

While I know it’s a personal choice and everyone has to stand behind their decisions, I can’t help but feel that I’ve been betrayed. In the most metaphorical way possible, of course. I just feel that in choosing to get married straight out of high school or having children at an age where most of them didn’t even know the meaning of life, they all betrayed our once unanimous idea about what life is meant for. Does that mean I think having a career is truer than any other choice? Probably not. But when did it become acceptable to go back to the old ways? When did we start doing what society was telling us to do all along? It feels like we’re moving backwards.

And I've always been a rebel. Remember. The plane takes off against the wind, not with it.