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.
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).