This isn’t goodbye.

So, it’s done. I left Paris. After four and a half years of hell and wonderfulness combined (hint to the postcard below) and two weeks of intense stress. A few days ago I moved back home, sort of, at least for this year. I say sort of because I still don’t feel that way in my own head, although everyone around me seem to be certain of it. And I moved for the funniest of reasons if you know me, me who never in her life made a decent career decision. For a job. (Yeah I know not funny, probably another purely internal thing.) Maybe, that is why it’s one of the hardest heartbreaks, too, the hardest decision I ever took because it’s the first with actual consequences I have to bear. Some sort of sacrifice I had to rationally convince myself into. It hurt so fucking much I really doubt I made the right choice and miss my old what-is-a-career-anyway me. I need to remind myself of why I took this job and why all the old ones were (partly) wrong, often transforming me into a brain-dead zombie. I don’t really care about all that now, though. I can only miss. Till now, I didn’t know grieving over a place is just as hard as over people. You’d say, like everyone around me, ”But Paris is still there, a two-hour flight away, you can go whenever you want!”. But I think that what I’m grieving is far more complex and not repairable with just a vacation. It’s the life I built, the relationship to a home I finally found and then tore myself from. I know it wasn’t perfect and that I’ve been preparing for this for a while, yet it still doesn’t make it easy. I’ll live, I’ll give this a try, because maybe I have to give myself a real try, and then maybe France will have me back soon. Now, just give me some time to digest everything.

Leaving Paris is never easy. Sadness shows you it meant something, that every bit of it was worth it.

The most ravishing autumn moments

This October’s weather has been a bitter-sweet candy that I most gladly take advantage of. I know that these spring-like sunny days, with temperatures above 25°C during the day aren’t supposed to be here anymore, that they coincide too suspiciously with the report just published about our climate, that sometimes I feel even my body being a bit confused because of the still so strong sun that my skin burns under the jeans… But but but – I savour each one of them like it was the last one, hell it soon really will be.

I look forward to work just because I’ll get to sit in a most charming garden during my lunch break or go to the near-by park to have a mid-day picnic, consisting of a fresh baguette sandwich, eclair and an espresso from a neighbouring boulangerie. Yes, for those of you who are familiar with my rant posts: I have a new job whose surroundings are so much more alluring to all of my senses at least one of my anxieties will calm down for a month. For the second time, a job made me discover an area I hadn’t paid too much attention to before, always walked through a bit too hastily, posted a single adjective on it and moved on (here, it was posh), bored somehow. I might not agree with the prices and will insist in the future to bring my own snacks, yet the morning sun rays enveloping empty esplanade‘s trees get me every time (Invalides). I even fall for the cliché tower again, seeing it so rarely recently, so early in the day probably just once before, appreciating it better from a far in the foreground of green.

All of this almost takes me back to my favourite October ever, that autumn spent in the South of France. And that says a lot.

7th arrondissement.

How I see myself after 3 years in Paris

Three years in the middle of your twenties mean a whole lot of growing up, in a bitter-sweet mix of disenchantment and empowerment. When you spend them away from home, the mixture gains new dimensions, wide and deep. There is no reality check that makes you face yourself in a more radical way, than that of cutting off the familiar. Feeling like those little birds you watched on animal shows, or young wild cats, deciding it’s time to leave the nest and take the maturity test, make your own initiation into whatever life you chose, hunt down the necessities with the four limbs and one head you were born with, making out little by little what your gut feeling is like. Perhaps, trading surviving and living more often than you expected, only now realizing how stubborn you are. Stubborn, stupid, who knows. Continue reading “How I see myself after 3 years in Paris”

In the search of it

Bonifacio, Corsica.

For WPC: Place in the World.

Several years ago, the choice for this post would have been so easy, some Seine riverside photo or other, Pont Neuf, or a random Parisian street. Today, though, my place in the world seems to be transforming constantly. Home is a feeling, not a place, anyway. Not that I don’t feel like belonging to my favorite city anymore, I still very much do, I still adore its streets and its banks as much as always, I still get the sweet aching sting in my chest every time I leave it. Yet, the older(?) I get, the more I feel like the stuffy city air, the absence of true green colour, the noise, are getting to me … and the more I feel at home at the Southern part of France. The more I appreciate that special easy charm, worn out and lively, the clearing wind rushing through. And the closeness of salty air, hitting your stuffed nostrils, those narrow paths among the bushes and the flowers, with such stunning views on the majesty of the world you have to actually catch your breath again.

In the words of my friend, on our last day on this magnificent island, a country of its own, really : ”What are we waiting for?” – to change our homes into a place where we can breathe and walk freely, where there is everything you need to build your own little paradise.

Would I last here, though, wouldn’t I miss the other side? Maybe, there is never just one place where we belong, there always have to be more, complementing each other in their contrasts.

How I see Paris after 3 years

When three years pass in the same place, same room, with harshly the same people, we can easily imagine things stay the same, that nothing has essentially changed. Yet, when I was sitting across a girl on the train heading to the center from the airport, with a huge suitcase, a filled backpack, a beret, and a book about the dream city in her hands, while I was returning from celebrating Christmas with my family back to my new home for the third time, I could see that something has indeed changed, slowly maybe, imperceptibly, yet persistently.

There is a certain profundity that links you to the city, while dreams are transforming into a reality, while you’re less and less a stranger and a visitor, a simple spectator, and more and more connected into this web of its core lives. Continue reading “How I see Paris after 3 years”

Music I discovered in Paris, part V

Her ; Juliette Armanet ; Melanie Pain

Her : As internationally as they look, sound and actually are, these guys’ collaboration comes from France (not Paris though). I’ve always appreciated (electro-pop) artists giving a bit of soul into their music when it’s so easy not to do it and still produce a hit. Well, they understood my inclination and are already booming all over the world. No need for the five minutes, one of their songs is talking about, to convince and seduce you to swing along.

Juliette Armanet : So often, it’s all about how the voice and the articulation of such a beautiful language are gaining a reign all over a song. At least, that’s what she makes me wonder about. Maybe, it’s with a bit of melancholy and nostalgia, with that inspiration that must come straight out of the best of not only French ballads of the past century. Most certainly, it’s with impeccability.
+ Check out her French version of I feel it coming (The Weeknd feat. Daft Punk), it’s absolutely beautiful.

Melanie Pain : I’m sure you all know her voice, but maybe you are like me in ignoring her as a solo songwriter. Correct that mistake. After loving every single curve of her melodic interpretations as a part of Nouvelle Vague (Master and Servant and God Save The Queen!), I almost by accident discovered the song below a couple of days ago. A familiar name told me to give it a try. Oh the good random procrastination choices.


Give me a Sunday walk by the lively river, a bus drive* through two of my favourite Parisian quarters, a trip to the lovely bookshop, a reading spot on the sun, a book in my lap that opens up my chest, a feeling of renewing surprise by the ordinary view.

And I’ll be pleased.

*Line 96: Porte de Lilas – Gare Montparnasse

Music I discovered in Paris, part IV

No need for introductions anymore.
Fishbach ; Cyril Mokaiesh ; Faire…

No need for introductions anymore.

Fishbach : First, I thought her songs are alright. But on the second listen already, I became addicted. I’ve always had a thing for a sombre kind of pop music, you know, the kind when you feel the darkness looming in the background and awakening in your soul, together with that irresistible urge to move and shake and, well dance, and tell the whole world to go … there. There’s something in her sound and lyrics that corresponds to my mood – and even nature I’d say – immensely, so profoundly I think the last I felt it must have been with the White Lies, after Joy Division or The Cure or much of the blues music. Because essentially, there’s more to it than sadness, sadness isn’t even what we’re aiming for here. That’s why when it comes to her, the fact that she makes me think of Barbara and Eurythmics at the same time is quite appreciated. Tell me your life and at the same time make me dance on the 80’s beats.

Je veux du noir et je veux de l’espoir.

Cyril Mokaiesh : Just look at this video and try to understand a bit of the lyrics. The confession mood got me, after the guy already got my attention with songs actually entitled Communiste and La loi du marché. His music is demanding in a different manner than the above, yet you have to admit it has balls. What I appreciate is that his voice occasionally escapes the expectations and takes its own curvy path.

Faire & salut c’est cool & Casse Gueule : For those who like La Femme and Grand Blanc and the like of la nouvelle scène française, but think they didn’t go far enough. These do, oh yes, they do. For all the hipsters that got excluded from the crowds. Who knows, it might be your comeback, this punky electro eclectic style and sound, winning without trying to.

The simplest wish

Sometimes, I feel spring wakes up our soul with its desires and dreams, gets us going joyfully again in that relaxed atmosphere of insouciance. It’s the sun, yes. Then, it’s the flowers too. The simplest ones shyfully popping out of the ground, white, yellow, purple. Reminding us life can be simple as well, perhaps. Taking a walk in a local little forest with my grandma I only have one wish. For more of these moments, chatting and laughing, sharing the enjoyment of beauty with the people closest to me.

For WPC.


Living in Paris always leaves one with the impression this glorious city is all or at least the best the region has to offer. It might not be entirely wrong, yet sometimes the one-day trips that don’t include a two-hour train ride (and are free as part of the Navigo zone) are well worth it. It was still a winter, but luckily sunny day after a week of heavy rain and strong wind when my best friend and I decided to trade Normandy for a long morning. The possibilities of RER A still granted us with a lovely day, walking in a weirdly calm town center which didn’t even seem like one, the real freshly made waffles with dark chocolate dressing and strawberry ice-cream which mixed with coffee made a perfect setting for a good old chat. Then the view of La Defense and the top of the far-away Eiffel tower somewhere way down the valley. A castle and more than everything an enormous park, that actually looked like a forest for a while. I forgot how nice it feels to just take a walk amidst the green, free of asphalt and hard stone. How unbelievable long stretched branches of bare trees are with their veins-like beauty, emptied of the unnecessary glitter.

Now I know where I’ll take my picnics and daily reading trips in summer.




It’s been 2 years, Paris. I’m still here.

I actually forgot the exact date of my official move to Paris (yeah I know, how utterly unacceptable and disappointing for such an important event of my life), but I do know it was in late October, sometime after the 20th and a bit before my birthday. So, that means I’ll be celebrating two years of my life in Paris any day now. What a story to tell. To mix things up a bit, I decided to join the challenge and tell it almost wordlessly… And for the actual word-ful story, I’ll have to write a book someday.

From a tourist to a full-time Parisian? Peut-être. Never lost the wonder, though. Continue reading “It’s been 2 years, Paris. I’m still here.”

The locals’ joie de vivre is at the riverside

I don’t know if it was because I had already considered the riverside as the loveliest place in my hometown that I fell so much in love with it in Paris. Or was it the contrary, did I first discover the city’s charm here and then opened my eyes for the one in Ljubljana? Either way, both are among my favourite places on Earth. It is here I always feel most at home, exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And what I admire is how the touristy and the local intermingle on the banks. Overflown with foreign visitors, but still just as much appreciated by the Parisians themselves in the moments of their joie de vivre of bistros’ lunches, drinks at the cafés, regular stops at the  bookshops or the bouquinistes, enjoying bottles of wine on the benches, listening to guitar players in the distance. Of course, you can find the scene and the feeling in other quarters, too, yet nothing can compare to les quais de la Seine.


For WPC.

A day in the life of an expatriate?

A single moment is enough to scare the shit out of yourself. I don’t get it. Why did I break? Running down the stairs in tears, on my way to the last vacation dinner before taking off to my favourite city again. Why is saying goodbye suddenly so much harder than before? Continue reading “A day in the life of an expatriate?”


The forgotten quarter of French capital? By tourists, maybe. By locals, no.

The forgotten quarter of French capital? By tourists, maybe. By locals, no. At least if you’re not one of those living in the South of Paris and being scared of the North (yes, I’ve met those). This is not my first post about the 20th arrondissement (check out Rue Dénoyez and some street art: one, the other) and will probably not be the last, if only I can make myself take photographs of my everyday environment.

The thing is … I now live right next to it, more precisely right below Menilmontant. Consequently, the park I go to when completely without energy, not particularly sinisterly humoured and so not deciding for Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, but in a desperate need of air is the one of the climbing steps of Parc de Belleville. Where the shadows don’t spare their gentleness and where flies attack you in between the bushes. Small, not the most beautiful one in Paris, but sort of pretty and filled with families on sunny days. The one where street art blossoms and which tourists hardly find. If you do, climbing to the very top is obligatory or at least highly recommended. Or do take the street art tour that initially opened my eyes when I was still just another visitor to the city.

And then … there is that energy and a different smell to the air I sometimes inexplicably feel, although it is not really a particular smell. Is it just the pollution? It’s so different to the neighbouring 11th arrondissement which is officially my home that you can’t even compare their biggest avenues. Can it really be only the prevailing immigrants or better their descendants? The typical French cafés, but a bunch of shops that seem to belong somewhere else, the South or the East… But no, there are right where they are meant to be. (My sister recently asked me if I intend to cruise around them a bit anytime soon, since she cannot come this year and really wants another pair of that comfy Chinese pants, and to my (mis)fortune tight budget isn’t a solid excuse there…)

Just don’t expect something when you go here, especially not Paris from the pictures. This is not the fancy river bank and it is not the artsy Montmartre neither. Let’s only hope the process of gentrification is never completed here.

The under-appreciated moments of being on the way

I remember how I loved the journey, the act of being on the way to somewhere, as a child, always being a bit disappointed at the moment of arrival when it inevitably ended, even if I sincerely wanted to see my destination. It was the moments of observing the world around me I adored so much.

There was a certain unconscious thrill and a conscious delight in the calm back seat of the car, going to my grandmother’s or being on a trip in an unknown country, devoting all my attention to the passing scenes of the streets and the highway, fields and forests, people on their errands, sneaking a peek on their balconies or through the windows. All of life seemed available on the plate to my eyes, thoughts and feelings. It was a meditation of sorts, maybe it was even an escape. Continue reading “The under-appreciated moments of being on the way”

Music I gratefully discovered in Paris, part II

I said the list would grow, right? Well, here’s the second part of my eternal quest.

I said the list would grow, right? Well, here’s the second part of my eternal quest.

La Femme : There was a summer (or maybe it wasn’t actually summer) a few years ago when I was obsessed with one of their dancing tunes and then I never followed what they did next. Until a few weeks ago, when I rediscovered this band with unbelievable energy and not a bad collection of good songs, not really understanding why I had ignored their existence for so long. It was the video below that did it, so Parisian I had to like it, and a song, a bit out of their usual style, that sort of captured the mood of disenchantment with the world of … love, of course. Now, I can’t wait to see them live on one of the festivals.

Feu Chatterton : This is the tradition of French chanson modernized in its finest. I mean, I’m no expert, so not the one to judge here, maybe, but for me the singer, his voice and interpretation, alone is enough of an explanation why. Not underestimating the music, though! Even though I did like them right away, I had to listen to a few songs before really falling into their sound. Now, I’m totally digging it.

Midnight Special Records : When you don’t know what to listen to, because you got tired of everything on your usual list, or you just want something not too demanding in concentration, it’s perhaps time to check out what these guys are getting out on the scene. Theirs are Clea Vincent, Laure Briard and Michelle Blades, for example (everything is available to listen or purchase on their bandcamp account). So much pop, it can’t get much more popper, but at the same time it’s a different kind of pop that usually hits the charts. Dancy, melancholic and even slightly nuts in intervals, it’s most of the time something else than the usual packages. The reason you might actually like it, or quite possibly the opposite as well.

And always…

Babx : Because he’s doing everything I would be doing if I knew how to sing and play the piano. I rediscovered him with last year’s album of literary excerpts made into songs Cristal Automatique which is magnificent, all the more so because I heard it in its entirety live, his presence booming from the stage a few metres away. Not because he’s a showman, but because he’s so strong in what he does. Just as much also as a songwriter.

Will vs. Strength

The more you go through, the more you can go through.

Why we push ourselves out and go live somewhere without a proper safety net, putting ourselves in situations where things aren’t as self-evident anymore? And how can we keep up with all the challenges, surviving things one after another and still see sense in it all?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about a change of phrases that could lead to the change of perspective. They say it helps to motivate yourself if you say ‘I want to do this’ instead of ‘I need/must… do this’. But what bothered me is the ‘I can’t do this, this is just not possible for me to do…’. Is there really anything, besides things limited by physics and ethics, that we genuinely cannot do?

Maybe we should start saying ‘I don’t want to do that’ and lift from ourselves the burden of incapability, defeat and fear. Continue reading “Will vs. Strength”

Autonomy in all its glory

If I had to personally define autonomy (it’s the daily prompt, yes), I would say: ”that independence from anyone and anything as the one single thing I’ve strived for my whole life”. I’ve been too stubborn about it, like a blindfolded hurt buffalo thrusting my way through every relation I had, family, friends or love, it didn’t matter. All they had to know and what I wanted to feel was the eternal I don’t need anybody, any-F*-body, ok?. You can guess it all pretty much went wrong, except my precious family and a few friends who somehow saw through my walls to the core that they, God knows why, appreciated. I was lucky.

I’ve reached my autonomy quite closely in the past year, moving to a foreign country, Continue reading “Autonomy in all its glory”

Music I gratefully discovered in Paris

Here’s to the melodies that made and still are making my stay here bearable in its many anxieties and phenomenal in its just as many joys.

After publishing the post about my Chilean music discovery, I’ve been thinking I could easily share all of those just as awesome musicians I found right here, in my new hometown. There are many, but in the same time there are only a few that really had a moment of captivating me. The list will grow, I’m sure, because local music is one of the things you slowly adapt to and eventually adopt when you move to a new country. Of course, I’m talking about the contemporary scene and not the beloved pillars of la chanson française, not matter how I fell in love with them in high school (thank you, my dear professor for all the lessons in the company of Edith Piaf, Jacques Brel, Juliette Greco, Barbara, Gilbert Becaud…).

Visiting the city’s many festivals, stepping into a hall at the right moment, walking past a free concert or just reading the cool weekly magazine (you all know I’m talking about Les Inrocks), either way it’s usually pure luck to find them and only an open ear can be a certain kind of guarantee you might. Here’s to the melodies that made and still are making my stay here bearable in its many anxieties and phenomenal in its just as many joys.

Fauve : This band, oh this band. It saves lives. When I first listened to their songs, it felt like they captured the dark side of this city’s essence. Dark sounds weird, but I say dark because they talk about the anxieties and loneliness we all encounter in this metro-necro-pole or chouette ville as they call it in Sainte Anne. You can accuse them of a certain new young ”bourgeois” attitude, maybe, like everyone really, however, I appreciate them for building a community around their music and message, for erasing or better softening the urges that so often occur, of battles inside us. I absolutely love their dance rhythms, the sound, the interpretation that in one precise moment made me fall in love with the French language all over again. (You forget how beautiful it is when you’re using it every day, constantly struggling through the little mistakes.) There can hardly be anything more healing and uplifting than raising your hand high to the song below, middle finger pointing to the sky, together with a crazy crowd after an already amazing day at Rock en Seine, shouting ”You know what, the blizzard in my head, c’est fini, tout ça c’est fini…” and well a few other less nice words…

Jeanne Added : I actually discovered her on the last year’s day of the music which is a fact I absolutely love. I remember stepping into the Place de la République from Rue du Faubourg du Temple and instantly asking myself ”What is this sound?!”. I never heard about her before, but at that moment I was navigating through a mass of people, insisting to get closer to the energy that was radiating from her voice and the whole band, commanding the stage. I hadn’t intend to stay at the venue, because I prefer smaller improvisational gigs, happening on street corners, but I remained in the crowd through the whole of her act. I couldn’t help it, since she was just getting better for my ears with each song. I still very much appreciate her sound.

Lucas Gabriel : Sometimes, I’m not the smartest cookie in the room, but my luck still saves me. Thinking out of tiredness against my own principle to hear out every introducing act of the concerts I attend, I was running late for the Benjamin Clementine one. Thank the goddess, I made it for the last couple of breaths of this guy’s magnificent voice. His music touches my heart and soothes my soul and hopefully I can finally get to see him solo some day soon. It’s not like we don’t live in the same city, right?

And I’m exercising my free will in adding another.

F. Nevchehirlian : This man can do no wrong for me. I admit I discovered him back home, in the middle of the tiniest capital, Ljubljana, but does it matter? He embraces everything I love about the tradition of the modern French chanson and is, besides that, also an intelligent and opinionated musician. Music is on point, his interpretations of lyrics even more, and the attitude he incorporates in his persona very much valued as well. I chose an old one, from the album inspired by Prévert‘s writings, because we should definitely listen to what it has to say more often.

The Mysterious Ways of Intuition

Do you ever wonder how intuition works in mysterious ways? How you can sometimes just know things after the first glance and sometimes the first impression completely misleads you…

I couldn’t see my best friend when I saw a shyly vivid blond girl sitting in the first row on our first day of high school, but then I immediately knew I had to speak to a guy I met in a hostel just by observing his movements on my first night there. I’m still glad he did two evenings later, because he was one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.

I almost didn’t send my application for the job (and was near to cancelling the interview later) which I at the end got and am still very grateful for, because it was the reason I was able to stay in Paris for a whole year (and counting…).

However, I knew from the very first step that the street I was walking on would once be my home. And indeed, a year later I’m doing my groceries and laundry right there and living just around the corner from it.

So, how does it work?

Is it just us not listening to it? Does it sometimes mislead us on purpose? Or, is it sometimes simply not there?

Or maybe it’s never there and it’s just us believing in something and working for it, making it a reality, our reality?

I can’t decide.

And maybe, it doesn’t really matter in the end. If we just let life be.

Pushing through the blizzard

A post written on a frenzic day (so excuse the errors) in May that sort of got lost…

A personal reminder, in a way.

Maybe it’s usual and something everyone goes through to have a personal crisis about 6 months after you leave home and start a life someplace new. The initial enthusiasm wears out a bit of course and then you feel that even though the many basic things are already figured out, too much – everything is still missing. Where’s life, you know? Someone I met here defined that as ”lack of structure” of any kind, because everything you have and do seems to have a temporary or insecure nature. I’m not sure what brought it up for me, since I’ve already had so many crisis in my life and with all their differences they are all in some point or another just a repetition of an ancient story. As always it burst out at the least appropriate moment and as always it hangs around much longer than you think it would, long after you think ”you’re good now”. Even the lessons stay the same, but still you feel the urge to shout them out loud. So, I will.

I’ve been living my dream for half a year already and a part of me still feels like I’m stuck at the same place I was last year. When I’m lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the newly discovered favourite French band and thinking about the past day, there is always this strange surreal feeling about something being somehow off. Is it true? For real? Isn’t that just a bit too much? Would you believe it if somebody told you? …

Because that part truly is still stuck in the past. And I need to say to it every day: ”No, you’re here with me, in Paris, in your own room, with a job that actually pays the rent and all the other costs, you walk the Grands Boulevards every day to work, you go for a walk on an easy Sunday afternoon by the Seine and buy your books at Shakespeare&co … you, you, you. Right f*** now!” Continue reading “Pushing through the blizzard”

Why Paris?

At the first glance, one of the easiest questions one can ask me is: ”Why Paris?” It seems so obvious and intuitively self-evident, that I can’t help but hear a rhetoric tone in it. It’s when I try to answer it that I find myself in trouble. I start uttering nonsense after nonsense, feeling pretty naive, thinking I must have fallen for a tourist attraction or some cliché or the artistic history… But after a minute or two, I realize the question gets the answer it deserves and satisfy myself with a stereotypical rebellion: ”Because it’s simply stunningly beautiful and I feel good here!” However, isn’t there more, much more? To be perfectly honest, isn’t there everything here?

I so often find myself walking through some random streets I usually don’t know the names of and couldn’t specifically point to on a map, mutely saying with a sigh or almost singing: ”This is why I love Paris.” Of course knowing quite well what I mean by it, but would find myself in the same muttering predicament if someone approached at that precise moment and suspiciously demanded: ”What is this this you’re talking about?” I would probably feel the same old sentiment that words don’t quite do it justice and just pathetically point to everything that would pass us by, to the buildings and the cars, to the people and the birds, the clouds above and asphalt ground below us, even to the dirty air surrounding us. And that is all I could really do. Continue reading “Why Paris?”

But — why?!

What does traveling or moving to a foreign city/country change? Can it change anything, really? Isn’t it just an escape, a temporary illusion that your problems might resolve themselves there, that you might get to be a better and saner person in another place?

A lot of people were asking me these questions when I started talking about moving to France, just because I feel better here. ”Why do you? I mean – it’s just a change of scenery, how can that change you? You are still the same unstable emotional wreck…” But — wait, no: I’m not. Well, I am in a way, because it’s never possible to truly escape oneself. I still have my downs as well as my ups, I still feel melancholy as f*** most of the time, I still have to fight with my passive aggressiveness, I still feel stupid and silly and weird and well not normal and mostly just out-of-place… But I change. Something in the deep shadowy place at the bottom of my personality shifts. Something hidden before lifts up towards the surface and takes its place under the sun. Continue reading “But — why?!”