about sleeping in the night and eating breakfast in the morning

For the last couple of weeks I gave up on writing.

I would probably say that for the last couple of weeks I gave up on living in some acceptable human way, and that is my only excuse for abandoning my writing.

As I opened this blog, or journal, or anything you would call the thing you are looking at in the moment, I understood how much it is missing, and for all that I have the poorest excuse the world knows: I’ve been busy.

There is not a single word about how I caught the last metro in Paris to see my old friend and spend a night in a student house that looks just like Hogwarts, nothing about how I went on my sixteen hours flight to Houston, Texas, how I visited the actual Apollo mission centre. I didn’t write a single word about how great I felt with the wind in my hair when I rented the city bike in Houston city, or how beautiful it was to get drunk on the beach of small Texas island Galveston and run in the water with my clothes wet.


I did not write a word about how after a night of no sleep I was refused to be taken on board of the plane to my country and how desperate I was to go, how much it hurt when after travelling for 12 hours I had just one day to stay at my parents house.  I probably wouldn’t even know how to explain how I tried to make that day last forever and spend some time with all the people I miss, and how it felt when I had to get up in the morning and take the airport train, again, again, again.

I moved my flat in Dubai. I packed everything I have, a mountain of books, heavy photography albums, Buddha mask made of mango tree, frozen food, all my pillows and clothes I keep on buying to make myself happy. I used some superpowers of my new flatmate and we moved it all, from A to B, so maybe I can start everything from another beginning, in another place.

I was busy and this word is empty. It doesn’t mean anything anymore. Words busy and tired lost its meaning long time ago and I naively keep on using them, with a little trust that maybe this time I will be understood and learning over and over that the vocabulary I brought from my previous life does not have much communication to offer.

Tired, more tired, the most tired

Busy, busier, the busiest

During last month I probably went around the globe some three times, but it does not impress anybody anymore, and most importantly it does not impress me.

I did not write a single word about how after a night of work I jumped on my seven hours flight to get rejected on the assessment day for my dream job, and how I cried a river in a hotel room, the place I live in, with my boyfriend holding me and patiently saying

it will be okay.

It gets my eyes wet right now when I am writing about it too, but I learnt my lesson and I am thankful for it. It always hurts to get back to ground, and I suppose it hurts even more, when you spend most of the time around thirty two thousand feet above the ground.

Growing up in the world of dreams, books, summers and winters, cats and cakes, it gets hard to face the life as it is.

I should have written about how I met an Italian stranger once walking on the Milan main square in the chilly autumn afternoon and how he showed me the city . Maybe it was the smell of the European winter and my Christmas scarf, or maybe his italian accent and refusing to speak in any communicative English, but I couldn’t stop laughing for a second.

The smell of italian bakery, Poland covered in red and yellow leafs, the taste of pierogi. My dad and sister smiling at the airport arrival doors, the wind in my hair once I opened the car window on the Texas journey, the warm nights, the cold evenings. My friend laughing at me at Paris Cité Universitaire station in the night, the wind from the massive engines tugging my uniform once I’m standing on the airport and directing my passengers to the bus. Eating cheese crepes by the river Thames and holding my boyfriends’ warm hand, birds flying around my head in Milan.

Conversations with strangers. Sun rise

from

the

plane

window.

My job is taught, but beautiful. I have too many memories to share them with my friends. I have too many memories happening to watch news. I am too busy to tell my parents where am I going next. I am excited about evenings when there is nothing to do so I can go to bed early.

I feel constantly guilty for people I care about. I feel guilty for not having answered the messages, for not meeting friends the day I was supposed to meet them. I feel guilty because I’m missing birthdays, weddings, Christmas, mother’ days, family arguments, for not knowing what day it is, sometimes even being lost in another month. I bring wrong currencies to wrong countries, sometimes I forget to eat, sometimes I eat in the night and sleep in the day.

All the things I wrote make me realise one fact, which is, I am pretty much left alone with all my memories and my work. To spend most of your time in the sky is beautiful, but pretty lonely.


My life at some point has divided into the life itself and its narration. It is the nature of my job and I don’t want you all to listen to me whining, but instead of describing the places I see and get amazed with, I thought, at once I will describe the place I am in, so maybe you can understand it a little bit.

And if you don’t, it’s okay too.

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