lights out | ramblings


Happiness is a difficult concept to grasp. Mostly because it is constantly changing. You can single out a moment and say it was a happy time, but it is pointless to try to recreate a certain event to experience the same happiness you once felt. What brings you joy today may fail to do so tomorrow and you may find yourself smiling at a moment that once left a sour taste in your mouth. This is way being happy can be a bit of a struggle, you don’t know exactly what you’re looking for. Hopefully you’ll eventually stumble on something golden but most of the times you won’t know how happy you truly were until retrospective gives you a glimpse.

If you’re lucky, you can look back in your life and pinpoint the happiest moments. However, even happiness can be quite sad when it’s only a distant memory.

Sadness however is something very easy to embody. All you need is a brief moment with yourself and all at once the world goes dark. Even a happy souvenir can be easily tainted by a small quick thought. It really just takes a second to shift an entire day. It’s upsetting how fragile our mood is. It’s upsetting how our spirit can be broken with the wrong word. It’s truly upsetting how it’s so easy for darkness to overcome the light and how unfair that there is no switch to turn the light back on.

Most of the days will start off grey, some cloudier than the others, but consistently gray. Sometimes the clouds dissipate as the day goes by, however, night eventually arrives. Some days are summer days and the sun will shine unapologetically for many hours and night will take it’s time to come; others are more like winter and there’s only a little glimpse of light during the day, night arrives quickly and you have to make your way through life with a little more effort. You see, it’s quite hard to look forward in the dark, it’s equally as difficult to look back to where you came from. You can sit still and wish for the best or keep moving and hope you don’t stumble. Either way, you can’t succumb to it, you can never dare to become a distant memory of yourself.

Truth is there can’t be one without the other. And if it is a fact that darkness eventually comes, it is also certain that there will be light again. You just gotta hold on to that belief, even when you can’t see.

miscasted | ramblings

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I’m waiting for a colleague to pick me up, we’re going to small work gathering and I keep thinking how the hell did I got myself into this. Not in a bad way, I really don’t understand how in the world I can fit into this equation. If you were to tell me three years ago, that I would end up going out to have dinner with this set of people, purposefully, I would have laughed out loud.

These two fools at work like me. I have no idea why, but I know they do. Or maybe they don’t, and they’re just pretending they do, if that’s the case, props to them, making me believe someone actually likes me is an achievement on it’s own.

Either way, I know they do. Maybe it’s because they’ve gotten to know me, maybe it’s because they don’t know me well enough. It’s actually not fair to say they don’t know me well enough, since I’ve shared with them some things that I never taught I could share with anyone. I really dislike myself when I’m stressed and when I mess up, they’ve seen me at both and chose to like me either way, so I guess I can’t be that hopeless after all. There are some people who question their liking for me, I’m right there with them. Hey, I hear you, this is nuts. But I guess a couple paragraphs into this and we already came to the conclusion that there’s nothing either of us can do to change it. Move past it.

There are a few more people at work that kinda like me. I think they have their days with me, sometimes they’ll like me, sometimes they’ll tolerate me. That’s fine, most of the days I don’t have a heart, so I can’t say it affects me much. But when I forget to leave my feelings at home, it gets to me a bit and sometimes it get to me a lot, and when it does, I’m a crying mess at work. Which is never fun. What can I say, I wanna be liked. I wanna be perfect in what I do, and when I’m not, I cry. Yes, I’m adulting like that. Don’t judge me.

I guess I’ll be second guessing my place in this cast the entire evening, it’s just something that I do. People haven’t been really this inviting towards me, well, ever. It might be because I’m really not accessible to begin with, I don’t talk much and I’ll often refrain from being part of a conversation. I swear, these two idiots in particular really insist. I have no idea why. But they ended up getting to me. And now I like them. Ugh.

I don’t really wanna go anywhere anymore, although I fail to comprehend how, truth is I feel like I belong. Most importantly, I don’t feel like a broken dish anymore. I’m whole, still split, but whole. It’s confusing I know, but it’s just a side effect of life.

I still can’t help to feel a bit miscasted. Like I’m sort of a fraud and there are at least 20 other people who could do my job and be more pleasant to be around with. Being a better company than me is not a difficult task whatsoever. And I think there’s a chance they’ll still realize this before it’s too late. I wish they don’t, I’m kinda of attached to this two fools now.


sweet october| 2018 in pictures

So… is it Christmas yet?

October went by too quickly. It didn’t really seemed like it was going by too fast but when I noticed it was almost gone. That is nice. I like November. I like the cold, the short days, the warm coats and the scarfs that look like blankets. It’s my season. ‘Tis the season to be jolly. November has that wonderful almost Christmas flavour.

I get, I get it. It’s too soon for that. But a girl can hope. I tend to like November, I don’t think this one will be an exception, the big part of why I like this particular month is because it the one that leads up to Christmas. And I really freaking love Christmas. So bare with me, while I wait for it to be socially acceptable to put the decorations on.

But now, about October. I can’t recall anything particularly different about the past month, other than the fact that summer days made a huge comeback. It couldn’t be autumn soon enough. In retrospective, October was really good actually. I had pancakes with one of my favourite humans, breakfast with another; met family for lunch for more than one occasion; had friends over for dinner; hosted a games night; the fun socks made a comeback and I wrote a ton in here.

The only thing that really stings about October was the fact that I bought a book I ended up hating. I also got a bit disappointed at how relived I was that half of the staff at work left. That was a first for sure. Either way, October is settled. And although it was good, it’s nice that it’s gone.

45359113_1886875511431504_8547260041760079872_n1. First summer…45302268_347893005984507_4681879446334996480_n2. … then autumn.45339969_1041862929318693_6665295884793675776_n3. Flowers at the dinner table.45257873_1480376328731940_8532975083612798976_n4. Mornings rituals at home.45341443_326206964848934_2505582108286648320_n5. Cute socks.45361647_2534729816544909_5396875262124097536_n6. Mornings rituals not at home.45266166_344923762906546_7242330418958041088_n7. Pancakes and talks.

Twelve | ramblings

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My cousin’s daughter is 12 years old. She’s this sweet tiny girly girl that moves with caution at all times and bates her eyelashes a lot when she’s confused. She giggles loudly and gets embarrassed easily. She has an easy smile and it’s quite a pleasant girl, it’s nice to be in her company, she’ll talk a lot about her pre adolescent adventures when she’s comfortable. I like her a lot. I want the world to be kind to her. But twelve is a weird age to have. You’ll start to become aware of yourself; start to feel the need to be a bit more independent; and your friends opinions will become more important than your parents.

I remember being twelve. I was quiet, tall and skinny, had very long hair and was cute enough. That’s a fair description. My friend group consisted of loud, pretty, popular girls, who were all in the gymnastics team, so throughout my teens I would never be exactly in the shadows. Never really stood out on my own either, but was always a part of the group that did.

I remember the first time I caught a boy’s attention, it was also the first time I was told I wasn’t pretty enough.

I felt this boy’s gaze on me while I ordered my lunch at the cafe, it made me uncomfortable. It wasn’t uncomfortable because he was staring at me, it was uncomfortable because he was cute. Later that day he asked a common friend if she could ask me if he could have my number (if is sounds complicated, it’s because we were twelve). She was very excited about it when she told me and teased me a bit for it. I taught it was funny and cute, it was my first teenage love affair, and I dared to dream a little. That dream must have lasted ten whole seconds. Another girl in the friend group would quickly shatter my dreams of living a high school musical romance with a nasty comment about my appearance. It made me feel like he must have been mistaken, it wasn’t really me he was interested in, no one could ever be interested in the boring plain Mariana.

The worst part wasn’t that she said it. The worst part was how she said it so surely that it made me believe it. Girls learn to be merciless at a very young age. I know now that it came from a place of jealously, it wasn’t really felt or even thought off. But it stayed with me nonetheless. We were all dealing with first periods and unexpected boob growth and to make it even worse, the boy craze fever will never be as high as when you’re a teen. Twelve years old girls go through a lot, they often say and do things they’ll regret later in life. So, I don’t really hold her accountable for it, I never could. Karma was on my side, the boy went on to become my first kiss and we dated for a whole two weeks before summer break, so the joke’s on her really. Specially because a couple years later I would level up to her in meaness. It’s important to say I’m not proud of it. I wasn’t the nicest teenager, being a part of a group brings you a certain type of confidence that can easily become cockiness. From twelve to sixteen I did a lot of things with my girl friends that don’t really match up to my branding today.

I’m a firm believer that the devil is a teenage girl. And I once embodied it.

All that to say that I can’t bring myself to look at my cousin’s kid and see how she could ever relate to my experience at twelve. She’s so innocent and cute, how could she even dare to kiss a boy at such a young age? And her friends, I hope they are nothing but nice to her, she doesn’t have a bad bone in her and it would pain me to know that someone could ever comment on her appearance in an unkindly way. I hope she’s alright, kids nowadays either grow up too fast or are too sheltered. I hope she takes her time with the  boy fever. And that she won’t carry words that were said to her today to the rest of her life.

my hero


I’ve never met any of grandfathers, they both passed way before I was born. I don’t know much about them, only that they were loved and missed. It’s interesting to me that both my parents have a much sweeter image of their fathers than their mothers. But understanding the reasoning behind that is none of my business.

At 11 my father was left fatherless. He stopped being a child on that day. I can see the impact it had on him on his actions today.

My favourite thing I ever discovered about my father came to me a few years ago, on a Christmas Eve afternoon, while we all baked in the kitchen. He told me about how when he was a child, every Christmas, his father would buy a straw mattress and they would all sleep in the kitchen on Christmas night, surrounded by the empty wrappers of little chocolate cars. My father was the oldest boy of 7 children, but never went unnoticed on his own fathers eyes.

I was lucky enough to be his only child.

Growing up I was always told I looked like my father. I took that with pride, being compared to him was my greatest achievement, and to think I only had to be born to accomplish that. We were always similar on our lack of social abilities, I remember how every sunday we would go and visit family, due to my mothers insistence, and while she shared a cup of tea with her sister on the kitchen table, my father and I would wander off to wherever it was that the people weren’t. He would teach me words in French, talk about life before me and ask me questions about my own struggles. He always had a very subtle way to approach me and he’s one of the few people in the world that managed to poke my brain successfully.

The reason why he was ever able to do that, probably comes from the fact that we are too similar. Like me, he also fails to voice what he feels. It’s interesting to me that my father is the one who doesn’t truly seem in contact with his emotions and yet, out of the two, he was always the most affectionate. He will often put himself on hold just so that others can have enough room to feel whatever it is that they are feeling. He doesn’t need to have the loudest voice in the room, and if he can go on without having to do any small talk, he will.

He always did what it was required of him to do. Looking back, I realize that he spent an awful amount of time working far away from home. I didn’t really notice it growing up, guess he was really good at being present when he was indeed home. I remember being half asleep when he came into my room early in the morning and kissed my forehead before heading out to work. I remember him shaking my foot to annoy me wake me up when I would refuse to get out of bed to go to church, every sunday morning. I remember him, seating on the edge of my bed on a very dark sunday morning, and breaking some terrible news to me. I remember how he stumbled on his words and told me that I could lay in bed for a little longer if I wanted to.

My father never asked for more of me than what he knew I could give.

He had to grow up quickly but independence didn’t quite came with it, so he had to fight for it. In his early twenties he would follow is big sister’s footsteps and move abroad. She was always the one he admired the most, that ended up rubbing of on me, she would go from his favourite sister to my favourite aunt. I don’t think we should be admitting to that, but it’s only true.

My second favourite thing about my father that I ever discovered, was how he would write my mother a love letter every week while he lived abroad. You could argue they were just letters, but my father does not write without love. I got that from him without even knowing it. I recall being very good at essays in school way before I ever found out he wrote as well. He once told me that he wished I could fulfill his dream and become a writer myself.

Writing too much and photographing too much are two of his traits that I was lucky enough to inherit. There always had to be a camera on our household and I was one of the few in my class that would be allowed to take the photography camera on a school trip. Way before me, my father would photograph weddings. My mother says he was good at it, she also say he lost his business for being too kind hearted. I can see that happening. My father doesn’t really bother to see the evil in the world, he’ll see them in movies and laugh at their stupidity, but somehow has a blindside for them in real life. So he’ll just live his life never truly believing someone can be out there with nothing but his best interest at heart. Never really believing he is relevant enough for someone else to try and take his place. While being absolutely indispensable.

He was always the first one I would fight with and, simultaneously, the first one I would agree with. I remember being very little and hearing my mother say that I got my bad temper from my father. I get it now. We argue in a very specific way. We both hate confrontation, so we’ll just give up on the fight while sticking to our argument and it somehow looks like we don’t care while inside we are cracking to cope with how we feel. Don’t quite know a lot of people like us. Thankfully for the world. I can see why my mother would frequently get frustrated in our household.

He was always the one to encourage my independence and always made sure I had a stable safety net. He would kick me out the window and be right on the floor to catch me if I failed to fly. But he always made sure I knew how to fly first. My father knows that we can love from afar. And doesn’t take my emotional distance as a personal offense – like my mother often does – somehow, he understands me. I must have been made in his own image, carved from inside out with his features. He’s always been kind to me and showed me the most love when I least deserved it.

He turns 54 today and I think he deserves a break. I’ve always been very protective of my father. Do you know how often girls will seek protection in their fathers arms? I’ve always wanted to be the one person who would give him a break. Life wasn’t easy on him, from losing his own hero at a very young age to being separated from the one’s he loved the most several times in is life, I’m one to think it’s about time he catches a breath.

I could write about him for hours. But I probably should stop writing and give him a call instead.

Happy birthday dad, you will always be my hero.

Flowers in the winter | ramblings


From little bulbs they’ll sprout, daring to bloom in the winter. If flowers can blossom in the cold and be as beautiful as they are, how can you ever believe opening up your heart is an ugly thing to do?

I’ve always been one to think that flowers that blossom in winter are the best type of flowers. As fragile as they seem to be, to open up in the cold dimming light of winter, is a defying act. They dare to be beautiful even when the rain pours heavily, threatening to harm them. I’m not one to know much about gardening or flowers in general to be quite honest, but I know beauty and I tend to collect beautiful concepts.

Some people are just like flowers in the winter. They’ll open up during dark times and bring beauty to your gray days. It is in the unflattering cold tones of winter that we can truly see – the sun can’t blind us like in the summertime. To be able to show beauty in a hostile environment is quite a virtue. Not many can do it, in fact, very rarely will someone do so.

As someone with a tendency to shut down when the environment isn’t familiar, I must say I appreciate the effort someone will put in opening their hearts when life seems to be a winter day. To show kindness and delicacy to someone who isn’t being deserving of it is an act of rebellion in a society that encourages obnoxious behavior.

I don’t know many people who have mastered this art. I try to follow the examples of those that I know who practice this. But there are times when I get it all wrong. My attempt at being understanding will often come of as a lack on interest all together, and I do seem to chose the worst moments to open up my heart. And I don’t ever want to be seen as something ugly.

It is important to keep trying and to keep praising those who dare to be the beauty in cold winter days. Their work is well cut out for them.

clever girl | ramblings


I was once told I was emotionally smart. That’s the most foolish thing I’ve heard. I have a colossal lack of understanding when it comes to my own feelings. I can’t voice them, I can’t comprehend them and I certainly cannot manage them well. I either feel them all at once, or not a all. Sometimes I can’t even be aware of what I’m feeling until someone points it out. Way too often I don’t know if a certain sentiment is there out of suggestion or if I was blocking it out. Either way, me and my feelings don’t keep a close relationship, how can that be smart?

I used to believe I was empty. As if you would go on for twenty something years in this world and simply run out of emotions one day. That’s a stupid thing I used to belive in. I belive in a lot of silly things, since I normally keep them to myself, no one ever has the opportunity to tell me I’m being an idiot. And I go on with my life, being an absolute fool because no one gets close enough to call me out. Again, not the smartest thing.

I still think I can be a bit empty at times. That’s what saddens me the most, how detached I can get from my own life and just exist as a bystander. Does everyone goes through that? It feel as if I’m hollow. Do you know the sound you get when you knock on an empty wooden box? I feel like that sometimes. Someone will knock, and all they get is a muffled sound… they are searching for some sort of an emotional response and I fail to deliver. Way too many times. I can’t help it though. Emotion is not something I can show instantly.

Thinking about it, it’s not that I fail to deliver, I’ll just take a while. I’ll fell a rush of things all at once, they come like tsunamis, out of no where. And when I feel something, I can’t deal with it properly, it’s just too much. So I’ll just malfunction altogether. For a few minutes, then on with the day I’ll go. Until the next overcharge.

I’ve been told – and it’s true – I’m very passive. You have to try really hard to get me so mad that I’ll say something. If I feel like there’s a chance I’ll regret what I say, then I simply keep it to myself. It’s just easier to handle. But by avoiding conflict, I’ve became a very conflicted person. That’s not smart whatsoever. I think healthy people are supposed to share emotions and not bottle them up. It’s a very dumb thing to do and I have no clue how to stop it. Truth be told, I’m not sure I want to stop it. That’s even dumber.

I guess I can be consider smart because I can call out my own bullshit. I know exactly what is I’m doing wrong. But what’s the point of that? I’ll only assume my wrong doings when I’m the only one listening. So how could that even count?

I’ve been told a great deal of things about myself through the years, some I believed in, some I didn’t. The fact that I can be consider emotionally smart is truly baffling to me.