1. The boy I failed to love | from me to you

From me to you, dugged out of my blooming heart.

I am here, as close as the present allows me to be. I am sorry, as apologetic as you’ll allow me to be. These words are no longer mine, they belong to you now, take them with you if you must or leave them be if you can’t bare them. I have to give them to you, they are not mine to have, and if I keep them for much longer they take up all the space in me. I’m overflowing when all I want is to bloom. So take them or toss them, let them out of here.


  1. The boy I failed to love.

He wrote me poems. In them there were words I did nothing to deserve, between the lines there were feelings I had no intention to keep. I did my best to push him away – or so I thought I did – but closer and closer he got. I could no longer breathe.
I shouldn’t be so scared of being the object of literary affection, but I couldn’t handle the outspoken fondness. I’ve learned to love quietly, shyly and slowly and I grow doubtful of such quick attachaments. He was a tsunami of all good things, but one can drown in rivers, even though the waters’s sweet.

Maybe I’m the one who’s broken – and I say this with all the certainty – I’m too slow for the game. Affection doesn’t come easily to me. It’ll take me years to love someone and even longer to trust them.

His only fault was to pick me out of the 7 billion people in the world. The reason why I would be the object of his poems was baffling to me. Anyone else would have taken them into consideration, while I showed a complete disregard for his feelings. It was not fair, I never was. There’s no narrative in which I’m the hero and I have to own up to that.

I should admit that I’d write about him too. I’d write in detail about the softness of his fingertip tracing my arm. I would turn little things into novels. I could write about him for pages and he could lay in my bed for hours, but hell be dammed if I was ever gonna love him.

It wasn’t fair that I told him I wrote about him. It gave him the wrong impression. I know now not to let people know when I write about them, not when I care more for what I can turn them into for the sake of the tale than for them.

It’s not like I sent him what I wrote. Maybe I should have. I never sent him any words of mine. He sent me his. I never provided him with true intimacy. He can say he met me and went on without ever knowing me. How he kept coming back was puzzling to me.

Had I sent him my words he would have read right through me and realized I was never worthy of his affection, for I could never claim it or even return it. It all went to waste.

I’m sorry I couldn’t let him know sooner how incapable of loving him I was. I’m sorry I allowed him to be vulnerable when I couldn’t even be honest. I’m sorry I’ve let him write to me, talk about me to his friends, paint a picture for a near future, when I knew damn well enough my interest was brief and he wouldn’t have my attention for long. I’m sorry I’ve done it more than once and I’m terrible sorry because I know I’ll do it again.

At last, I’m sorry this is more about me that it was ever about you. In all fairness, at least you can’t say I’m not consistent.

book-ish confessions | ramblings


There aren’t enough books in the world. 

I’ve came to this realization the other day and it stings. There aren’t enough books in the world and it’s quite dramatic.

On the other hand, there are too many. But none of those out there can ever be good enough. 

People write about love, friendship, adventures, misadventures, grief and lost. They’ll write letters, poems, prose and fiction. There is a sea of books and if you put your hand out there enough, I’ll end up bitten by one of them. I like to read books that bite, but even more importantly, I like to gift books that bite.

Now, I don’t like buying books for others, I see it as quite a personal thing, that you have to do yourself – like buying underwear. But when I think of a perfect gift, a book always comes to mind. To purchase someone a journey from their own couch can be quite a bargain. To have someone find themselves in written words and cure them from loneliness is priceless. We often give people gifts in hope that they’ll enjoy them, but the most precious gifts we can give is something we’ve enjoyed ourselves. It’s like earring someone’s favorite song, you get to know them a little better. Giving books we’ve found ourselves in before is giving a little bit of ourselves in it.
That’s why I believe it is pointless to buy books for others that you have no recollection of.

I like to walk around bookshops, I like the endless possibilities there. Way to often I’ll find books that I’d like to read, but quite rarely do I find something I’d like to offer.

The other day, at one of my favourite spots, while wandering alone in the poetry section, my fingers stumbled upon a poetry book that made me think of someone dear. I sat on the couch, and made my way though the pages. It didn’t took too long before finding out I’d be taking it with me.

We’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the starts. (Oscar Wilde)

Something I’ve read once and treasured dearly ever since.

I decided to give a little bit of myself, the book was just collateral damage. Because the truth there aren’t enough books in the world. Not when you want to gift someone you care for.

everlasting august | 2018 in pictures

August went, and went, and went. It dragged it self for so long, we managed to fit all four seasons in it. August lasted for so long, that it is still august as I begin to write this post. That’s right, the month hasn’t ended, but I’m done with it already. I’m calling it a day with august, I can’t take it any longer.

With autumn comes change and I need a little bit of that.

Now, to be fair to august, it wasn’t terrible. I was hoping to get an escape, and I got a visit from some old ghosts instead.

Remember last month, when I said August brings Paris in his sleeve, and that can only be sweet. – Well, that’s not untrue. Although Paris was sweet, I was bitter.

The worst part wasn’t that I didn’t knew how to handle myself for a little bit there, the worst part was not remembering how I overcame these unpretty feelings the last time.

August stung even on the very last day. I can only hope September brings a little bit more peace.

40838690_464005284110749_2063281050385121280_nSweet vandals, an all time favourite.40854072_247785772545459_7845460379843952640_nEveryday sights.40863341_1098592490310753_1953436570300186624_nWriting on receipts.40893088_285546632272164_6632352862863097856_nLate nights.40978488_2185192511803466_7277186376372584448_nReflections, a classic.40994701_530634564033831_7668675712009633792_nEasy mornings.41068532_525372881209529_2852349280910311424_nLost pages.41105481_529749534129437_5876778105867075584_nParis, mon amour.

never ending love | ramblings


Paris has always brought me comfort. For some reason I always felt more like myself over there.

It never hurt me either, it has always been kind to me. Paris never brought heartache, disappointment or the feeling of failure. I have never over welcomed my stay and Paris never sent me home with a broken heart. Instead, we appreciate our time together. And I like to keep our romance like this. Sweet brief encounters in the summer breeze of august and cold short strolls right before christmas. I always leave Paris feeling restored, like my hopes and dreams have a place and I can bring myself to fulfill them.

I always feel more like myself when I leave as well. Paris allows me to be, unapologetically. I can write without a purpose, sit at a cafe for hours and write my life away without having to call it work for foreign eyes; read my books for hours at the park or by the Seine. Not bother too much about what I wear, just dress as I’m pleased and not mind about judging stares. People allow themselves to simply exist there. At home, everyone walks like their going somewhere, not many allow themselves to sit on benches and read throughout an entire afternoon. But Paris is a city for lovers, lovers of the art. So people stop and create, wherever, whenever.

And I don’t intend to say I can’t do those things at home. It is unfair to say such a thing. The truth though is that I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m more self aware here. I overthink and become too aware of my surroundings. I’ll spot a interested gaze and reflect my own judgement on it instead of overlooking it.

I don’t wanna ruin my romance with Paris. I don’t wanna turn Paris into home and start caring about what people might think about what I do and wear. I don’t wanna move, that’s not what this is about. I’d like to keep dreaming about it, I’d like to escape there and come back home with that refreshed glow from someone who didn’t have to care for a single minute.

The harsh truth is that Paris is really not that different from home. I am the one changing along with the time zones. I’m the one who overthinks existing. I don’t allow myself to live an unapologetic life. So how can I ever be content? That’ll be the greatest achievement: to be as carefree as I can possibly bring myself to (that’s a redundancy, isn’t it?)

Maybe – just maybe – Paris was never a city, it as always been a feeling. And I have to take with me wherever I go, but most importantly, I have to accommodate it here, at home.


This didn’t made much sense, but I never do. It’s time to own up to it.

Depaysement | ramblings


The art of not belonging anywhere, I so impressively excel at.

For the longest time I believed it was my fate to always be split in between places. Always  on the road and never truly finding home. It’s like I’ve had my soul split between different places and I could never seem to find the glue to stick them all together, life always puled harder than I did.

Throughout the years I found places and people that only broke me more, split me more, and I became comfortable with my broken pieces. I found a flawed way to protect my self from being torn in between places and decided I’d be better off on my own. I’ve had enough, filled my quota and wasn’t taking on any new admissions. I was gonna become my own home. And I succeeded, although I shouldn’t have.

People are great, they add color to your life, and it’s quite a dumb idea to isolate yourself from them. The world will still mistreat you when you’re by yourself, and on top of that, at end of the day you won’t have anyone to turn your silence into music.

It wasn’t a bad life and it wasn’t a good one either. It was … lukewarm. I’m quite found of lukewarm feelings, they don’t tend to hurt.

I’ve read once about the Japanese art that consists of repairing broken pottery with gold. Kintsugi. Not only are they fixing the items, they are turning their flaws into value. I was broken, split, and somehow I found my gold. I’m still torn into pieces, but there’s something holding me back together. This is a really lame and shitty metaphor, I wish it wasnt so truthful.

And I don’t wanna say it aloud, I fear it’ll make it hurt more later on. But I’ve been feeling like I’m home. Whatever that means exactly. And the thought of losing it freightens me. For once, I’m scared to move on to the next thing. How many more places out there exist that’ll make you forget you’re missing a few pieces?

It’s not perfect, no place is. I’ve had some miserable days, I’ve been angry, frustrated and left with tears in my eyes. However, I haven’t found myself searching for an emergency exit, looking for an excuse to leave, like I did many times before.  Even when it sucks, it ain’t that bad.

It took me a while to find a place where I actually wouldn’t mind staying and a routine I wouldn’t mind falling into, and people who I wouldn’t mind splitting for. It took me a while to be willing to do that again.
Because life can beautifully ironic, the one time I wouldn’t mind staying, I’ll have to leave. And on one hand, I’m glad I won’t get a chance to over welcome my stay, it’s good to leave on a good note. To leave in a way I can still miss it later on.

However, I’m left to admit that I’m a furtive creature and I just wanna stay home.

bittersweet july | 2018 in pictures

I’m 25.

It’s not difficult to be 25. It’s not quite exciting either, but I don’t feel on the verge of a collapse and that can only be positive. I’m still fine, I’m still myself. And I am the girl I always wanted to be at 25. Ten years ago, when I though about cool girls in their twenties, I would have pictured someone in quite similar circumstances to mine, and I would dare to hope someday that would be me. Looking back, I must admit, it was quite more glamorous to dream about it than it is to become it.

I’m not unhappy though.

July didn’t felt like a crisis at all. It went by smoothly and it was a little bit more nostalgic than what I would have liked it to be, but it was expected, I guess.

With that being said, August brings Paris in his sleeve, and that can only be sweet.

38872939_481065248970559_5340761965373423616_nAn all time favourite: flowers at home.

38819611_679345979080502_3505932682183835648_nSlow mornings.

38872780_215687265767814_9185175015790739456_nLittle things.

imageBirthday pancakes with the best.

38804494_2232078490347098_179082677201141760_nSoaking up the sun.

38769175_294399824651256_5211684789240725504_nSunday strolls. 

38768508_2248532675174794_4759286319060877312_nMorning reads and coffee.



I never loved you more as much as I love the memory of you | ramblings

How the heart grows founder in the distance.
It’s been a while, yet I’ve never loved you
As much I love the memory of you today.

We go from sinners to saints when we pass the gate
But I don’t recall a single one of your mistakes
All you ever dared to do was love
And I can only aspire to ever be that brave.


In days like today, when I feel the least of myself, you often come to mind. How much you wanted me to be happy, to live a full life and love wildly. And I hold on to that. Your hopes and dreams for me keep me from fainting.
It’s funny that even after all those years, you’re still the one pushing me to be better. I’ve only known you for slightly more than a handful of years and the memory of you still hunts my days. I can’t go anywhere and not bring you with me.
I can’t hear your voice in my mind anymore, I can only recall how it sounded. Soft, slightly raspy, and joyful. You always talked like you were smiling.
It’s funny how my most vivid memory of you is from a sunny morning during summertime, the sun peeking through the blinds, you sitting at the edge of my bed, explaining to me what it meant to mourn. Your wife’s brother had passed, and when you told me she would be mourning, I asked you what that meant, I hadn’t been taught that yet. I must have been 6 or 7 at the time. I knew very little and I wasn’t the best kid, but you loved me still. And you cared for me, you always had my best interests at heart. You gave me a yellow bird, because I liked to help you take care of yours so much. You whistled everywhere you went, and taught me how to do it myself. Every other day you’d call me a different bird name. There’s lump in my throat every time someone ask about the hummingbirds, I still can’t bring myself to talk about you. Not as well as you deserve it.
I’m sorry for failing so terribly at doing you justice. I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to be better. For you. Because of you.