Each and every time I garner this undue acknowledgement, I begin to feel oddly like a fraud. Like I should craft some uniform and eloquent riposte to dole out to every person I’ve unintentionally deceived. One that makes it totally clear that I’ve done nothing remarkable. I may have been unafraid, but foolishly so. In fact, I cried four separate times because of momentary lonesomeness or because, like a child, all of my friends were together and I wasn’t there.
For the last few years, as I’ve wandered across the world, through weeks and in and out of days, finding my independence and self worth in dark, locked boxes that, unbeknownst to me, had always been hidden in strange nooks of my soul waiting to be discovered and set free, I’ve begun to find that… surprise!
There is no beauty more enrapturing than that of juxtaposition. Opposing forces exchanging unlikely compliments.
Leaving Florence was always going to be hard. I never had any doubt about that. I had put far too much of myself into that place for it ever be any different.
After floating through the acclaimed canals in a gondola, indulging in long glasses of prosecco and chocolate dipped treats (like a true tourist,) it’s rumored romanticism was confirmed. I could attest to its unmatched, enchanted beauty. And for two and a half years that is exactly how the city lived in my memory. A fairytale moment. A tourist’s dream. I couldn’t imagine being any more enraptured with it than I already was.
You’ve heard the old adage about how you can spend your whole life planning but that the universe is under no obligation to take those plans into consideration… And if that’s true then I’d rather not waste the time.
You’re totally normal. (Well,probably not totally, but you’ve at least got a handle on yourself.) You’re confident. You’re comfortable. And then all of the sudden it hits you. A terrifying and uncomfortable realization….You have a crush on someone.
A couple girlfriends and I decided to crash a vespa tour running through Tuscany. In a small bus, we rode out of our beloved city center and into the hills.
We’re trained to see the bigger picture. But every picture is made up of a million tiny details that make it into what is. They’re what make it beautiful, unique, personal. But somehow we always seem to miss them.
Our social narrative is dominated by hateful, divisive speech and stigmas. We’ve been trained to dehumanize and devalue in an attempt to seize the upper hand, intentionally throwing off the balance so as to put some at a disadvantage. And it’s working.
My lack of desire to see Bologna wasn’t based on anything concrete. It wasn’t based on anything at all, really. In actuality it wasn’t so much an aversion to the city as it was a lack of knowledge about it. And as is often the case, what you don’t know about, you don’t take much time to think about.
With the burden of responsibility, it’s easy to become a part of the rat race. The human condition allows us to fall so easily into routine that we simply shift into airplane mode and go through the motions. The main focus becomes getting from point A to point B.
Some days it’s all I can do not to live in this place for parts of it are too lovely to be true.
And other days I run from it, fast and far for parts of it have broken my heart.
I think perhaps it’s best just to visit.
His client told him what she wanted: To be spooned, to be rubbed, to hold and to be held… and he obliged. He touched her with affection and with purpose. He paid attention to her. Sexuality had no place in it