I was thinking on how to begin this. Where should I start? But then again, I believe that when you fall in love with someone or with something (or anything actually), you don’t really know exactly why or how it happened. Sometimes you can trace it back and connect it to a special moment, to a specific situation. But most of the times (or at least in my case), I can’t grab it. It just happens, and the more I try to think of an explanation or a reason, the more I feel it doesn’t have one. Sometimes, feelings just need to be felt, not thought.
I can see us. There, lying in your messy bed, pillows under our heads, looking silently the roof, me looking silently at you. Searching for your cold hand, hiding in some part of your hairy, darkened chest. Wrapping my legs around your firm body. That familiar taste on your lips.
I can see us in your room. The TV is on, there’s a football match you can’t miss. Your excitement, your screams, the way you jump out of the bed, your happiness when you ask me for another beer to celebrate. I take three with me so I don’t have to leave your side.
The last six months have been all about feeling. It might not seem as a big thing since feeling should be something we do every day, every second of our lives. The problem is that sometimes, this is not what we do at all. We forget how important it is to give ourselves permission to feel our emotions, to enjoy them and make the most of them. How important it is to feel every single one. It doesn’t matter if it’s anger, pain, hatred or love. Maybe we do it because it seems like the easy way out. Maybe we are scared of our own emotions.
Six days ago, I came back to my home university campus. The last time I was there was seven months ago: it was still winter, and the trees were completely empty. Sitting on the grass was not a possibility, and I was probably wearing 3 layers of clothes. I was a different person seven months ago. I wasn’t sure how the new Sammy was going to react after everything I’ve been through (lots of things that I will tell later on, I guess).
I have had at least five blogs in the last five years. It’s hard to keep a blog running; I always get tired, annoyed, or just too lazy to actually make it work. And then I reach the point in which this doesn’t make sense anymore, in which I can’t even remember why I started it in the first place. Even though blogs do have a purpose (most of the time at least), I simply lose interest in them. I feel that’s more or less what happens with everything I try in life. I used to think that was the way I was: just someone who can’t find something in which to be consistent, someone who still can’t find that specific thing that motivates you enough to keep it, to work on it, to polish it. I don’t think like that anymore. I think I was (and partially still am) an extremely lazy, weak person, someone who isn’t brave enough to really try, to actually care, or to fight for something. Every time something goes wrong, or it takes a lot of time, I give up. It just happens. I simply stop doing it.