storms.

I look at the pictures, the snapshots of the past, yet I sense the freshness of the air, I smell the upcoming storm – the aroma of the rain that’s about to flood the streets. I remember the smell from when we used to go to swim in the river and my mother would urge us to go back home before the storm would start.

‘Nebus to lietaus, vėjas išvaikys visus debesis ir vėl saulė švies‘ I‘d say. But my mum insisted and every time she did, the storm would start as soon as we‘d come back home.

‘Sakiau, bet nesiklausei!’ She’d say triumphantly.

To get back home we’d have to cross the bridge, which sloped over the river. Going down to our ‘beach’ was easy – the bridge sloped down. Getting back up, however, was always hard work, especially after hours of swimming against the current of the river. I’d come back home absolutely knackered and would always take a nap on our sofa in the living room, which was also our bedroom (as the flat only had one room). My mum would make lunch; the wonderful smells would fill up the flat and wake me up.

Oh how much I miss the view from our little flat. My school was almost beneath the windows, just across the road (which was full of rather dangerous holes). I remember one night I woke up from strange bright lights and when I woke up I saw my mum standing by the window, watching a storm approaching. I joined her and watched lightning getting brighter with every flash as it moved closer towards us. Then there was thunder…followed by heavy rain.

When I was little I feared thunderstorms. I remember hiding under the blankets as my mum would lean against the window as if trying to get immersed into what seemed like hell to me. She’d smile at me, saying ‘Nėra ko bijoti.‘ I obviously thought otherwise.

As I grew up, I became fascinated by thunderstorms. I loved the comfort they brought, the serenity. Me and my best friend would almost pray for them to come every time we watched a horror film – it gave an appropriate atmosphere I guess. We always watched scary films in her parents’ bedroom. I still remember the warmth of their bed, the sky blue colour of the wallpaper on the walls… Sometimes, when the sun would shine through the window, we would both lay on bed, dreaming of our summers together.

Little did we know they would soon come to an end.

i’m not happy. but i’m happy to admit it

i’m not happy and i won’t pretend to be like i always have.

i don’t want to force myself to overlook my own feelings that actually make sense.

it makes sense to be disappointed in my lack of effort.

it makes sense to be upset about not being at home.

it makes sense to cry when i feel isolated and lonely.

it makes sense to just not be happy when i’m not supposed to be.

i used to beat myself up for not being ‘grateful enough’ for what i have.

i used to ignore my feelings because i trust my rational mind instead.

i used to think it’s irrational to feel the way i have; but it’s not –

my feelings make sense. and this will become my daily prayer.

it all makes sense, and it always has.

the only thing that does not make sense is repression of my own emotions which simply act like warning signs that something is wrong – not pathetic, but wrong. 

if i’m sad – it’s for a reason, if i’m annoyed – it’s for a reason, if i’m holding my ‘irrational’ feelings back – i become passive aggressive.

and guess what’s worse; pretending to be happy and letting everything build up to the point where you take it out on the wrong people at the wrong time

or being honest with yourself and paying attention to what you really feel, and at the end of the day, what you really are?

i’ll make this my belated new year’s resolution i suppose – to me this is revolutionary and enlightening. instead of suffering i will be a little bit sad. instead of suffering i will cry a little bit and won’t be ashamed of it. suffering is not even an understatement anymore; if you keep your emotions locked up at the back of your mind they will spread like a disease. it will become anxiety, it will become depression and it will last for years.. until one moment, when you will realise that feeling something is okay. there is no need to look down on those who cry and those who are depressed and those who are not happy even though they ‘have it better’ than someone else – it doesn’t make them weak. it doesn’t make me weak and it doesn’t make me any less grateful; it just makes me more honest and more in touch with, well, myself.

today i feel like shit. i am disappointed in myself, i am feeling hopeless, but i’m not covering it up. i know why i’m feeling like this and it will pass, because it’s something i can easily change. maybe tomorrow i will be happy – nothing wrong with that either. as long as i’ll know what i feel and listen to it, i will be fine, and being fine is okay.

 

*just an exclaimer; this has nothing to do with mental illness, i’m not some kind of professional to speak about such matters. these are just free-flowing words from my head.

Barcelona (pt.1)

I have visited Barcelona at the beginning of September this year, but it is only now that I can write about it, following months of reflecting on my week-long experience in this exotic and deeply touching city.

The first word that comes to my mind when I remember wanderings in the streets of Barcelona is intimate. The narrow streets with heavy stone buildings embrace you. They have a sense of secrecy and a very strong sense of history, which sounds very vague, but words are vague compared to elaborate and vivid first-hand experience.

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Gothic quarter is not just intimate; it is absolutely breathtaking. There is something dynamic about its streets, perhaps it’s the ever-shifting light and ever-shifting shadows – I don’t know, but that something seemed to move the buildings closer to my body. You become one with the street; a part of its stone tile, a part of its strange perspective, a part of its history.

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This is the first and most memorable image of Barcelona in my mind. It was an expectation turned into a more impressive reality. It is strange how whilst thinking of definition of Barcelona I instantly thought of the single recurring thing – intimacy. I did not expect it, knowing how diverse this city is in its architecture, but I suppose every city has a soul that permeates throughout its entirety, and this is that of Barcelona.

Homesick (again)

Those who live at home

Who are able to work at home

Who are able to love

To laugh

To speak

At home

Are the lucky ones.

By home I don’t mean the four walls

With family pictures on them.

By home I mean homeland

With its vast green fields

With the language your heart beats to

With the roads you’d walk

With your eyes closed.

Homeland is like this fine lover

That knows your notes

And how to play them

When you’re far away.

 

But God knows

My heart is weeping

Because

I was torn away

From where I belong.

 

Homesickness

I know why it’s called sickness; it’s an actual disease. I feel it in my bones; it eats away my strength and leaves my limbs feeling limp. I feel it in my heart; it makes it miss every other beat and makes my chest feel empty. It deteriorates my state of mind, making it a negative place I try to escape by working too hard and driving myself to exhaustion.

I didn’t think I had home until I left it. I have never treasured the spaces I slept in, the pathways I took on a daily basis, the language I’ve heard and spoke even in my dreams.

I’m glad, however, that leaving home forced me to discover myself; once something tries to pull you away from your true identity, even if you don’t quite know it yourself, you almost subconsciously hold onto it and it always tries to bring you back where you belong. I dream of places where I belong, I dream of people I belong with and all of this is anywhere but here and God knows it hurts.

I think the best places to be are those that inspire you. At first they astonish you with their beauty, then they unravel their history, showing you the stories of people who have once lived, whose feet touched the same surface you stand on, whose words filled the empty streets you’re gazing at with wonder in your eyes. Then you take on what is given and unintentionally start creating stories of your own. You see this old theatre down the street? Many years ago, a girl known by many stage names left her story there; a story that eventually became a play. That never happened, but in my imagination it did. If a place fills your mind with ideas that excite you, then this is where you have to be. For me this place was Prague, and even though I’ve visited it as a tourist, its stories will stay with me till the end of time, and I will definitely go back there before that end comes.

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There is only one word that comes to my mind every time I remember Prague – magical. Its magic was to tie my heart to this city. Franz Kafka put it perfectly – ”Prague never lets you go…this dear little mother has sharp claws”

City of London

  London is without a doubt one of my favourite cities. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever visited a city I didn’t like, but London is the only one I consider to be my home. It is one of those metropolitan cities that seems to be composed of many little individual cities and towns; if you take a district line from Westminster to South Kensington, you find yourself in another era. If you go to Greenwich, you don’t feel like it’s a part of London – Greenwich is a city on its own.

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Christopher Wren’s Old Royal Naval College takes the visitors back to the 17th century. You can adore this sight whilst walking along river Thames, and if the English weather is forgiving, it’s a pleasant experience.

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Also, I will forever be fascinated by the rooftops in the very heart of Greenwich. And I made a wonderful purchase in the Greenwich market:

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Here’s a spam of photos I snapped whilst exploring central London (warning: attention for detail and not so much tourist-like material, also as an architecture student I focus on buildings only whoops) :

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