I’ve been writing a lot about how I feel towards certain things. It sounds a little bit abstract sometimes, not talking precisely about it. I haven’t done it because I’m afraid there is not space nor words enough to write all the things that happened during my semester abroad. That’s the problem, you know, once your “erasmus” semester is over: what to do with all the memories? Being a writer, of course that the only thing I can do with them is just…write them down. Slowly, piece by piece, memory by memory. Anyway, this is just another short version of a very long story.
I’ve been doing a loooot of inner-thinking lately. Since I became single I simply have too much time to think about myself. Even though I also had plenty of time to do this while I was in Scotland –and later on while I was travelling–, the truth is that my mind had more important things to think about at the moment. Things like partying and enjoying my new friends and my new feelings (and also more boring stuff like making ends meet). I was so struck, so amused by all these things that were incredible and that were happening so fast that I didn’t really stop to think too much about myself.
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.