”[…] watching the [BBC Global] documentary on Karl [Ove Knausgaard], made me angry. The quiet, small, and visceral anger I feel needing to stop. Stop thinking, digging deeper, reading, researching, analyzing, trying…

My scalp itches with ideas. I either write them or make it bleed. I often go for the latter. For some reason it feels more reasonable. Isn’t that funny? What is that?
Shame?
Shyness?
Self-censorship?

I don’t think I want to know really. What would I do with the information? Bury it deep in my overflowing pit? Laugh at it to satisfy the sick, comfortable, and well-known self-sabotage? Use it for good? Whose? Mine, or theirs? Can’t be both. Gotta pick.

But why put myself in the situation where I’d have to take yet another decision? Why? Decide for myself, or for them? Can’t do both. Gotta pick.

I don’t. I stop.
I go to bed.”

Honest

I live. I live. I live. I live. 
I struggle. I doubt, and fear, and question, and clench my teeth. 
I crinkle my nose, wrinkle my forehead. Push my thumbs through my cheeks. 
I breathe, but it’s hard. I wish to, but it’s hard. 

I try to do it all, and fail to complete a thing. The most important one. I write but nothing’s written. I read and forget. 
I start and not continue, never finish, never dare to. 
I look, I dream, I theorize, I plan. 
I want to be honest, I want to vocalize. I do it and I suffer. I can’t lie but you have to, it’s protection, it’s investment. Your own good, theirs. Keep adding value, I try and get worthless. 

I am here, here, here, here with all my thoughts. The notes, the tries, trials, trying, I stop. I always stop. I stop and stop and stop and it feels like going through with it but it’s not going. I cannot go. How can it if I don’t? 
I don’t write. I don’t try. I fake. I wish. I hope. I pray. I try again. I cry. I stop. 

Is this not living too? I live. 
I struggle. 
I stop. I cry. 
I write. 

My best work yet.

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What I thought would be a one-hour-no-power ordeal, the guys finished the job in under 20 minutes and the no cables were moved. The only thing that moved was the big spider that this guy disturbed when passing through its web outside. Seeing that made my half-eaten breakfast come back up slightly whereas he seemed to have other things on his mind. I will now go put our pantry back together in hopes the spider didn’t travel in. I guess it will give something to write about next if it did.

Stay safe. Take care.

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I get to wake up mid-week with no worry of every minute ticking in threat that I might miss my commute or be late to a meeting.

I get to walk our dog for as long as our adventure takes us, no phone, no notion of time, no worry of “wasting it“.

I get to listen to a whole podcast of 1 hour and 40 minutes which makes me laugh while folding the laundry in the backyard. While petting our dog in our living room floor, both of us marveling at the flies buzzing around.

I get to make a coffee and sip it slowly through the whole day instead of chugging it down quickly between appointments.

I get to allow myself an evening of laziness after work because the next day I know I will have the time to change our bedsheets, treat and wash my hair, do my pedicure and tweeze my brows, all in the morning hours where I would otherwise spending it responding to emails.

I get to sit in silence for as long as I want trying to understand what wind sound our pine tree makes and compare it to the oak of our neighbours.

I get to sit in my house and write this note instead of going on the mental health walk with my colleagues at 12:30.

Don’t get me wrong, having a job, an income becomes trickier by the day and I am very aware of the comfort and opportunities it brings me. But when I get to go about my day in my own time and on my own terms, I realize how lucky I am to have countless things to be grateful for. I am grateful because I get to have what to be grateful for.

and i hope that every Wednesday morning i wake up delighted that i get to live it again.

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However… I didn’t want it to finish. I want to linger in Mortimer’s head. Her prose, the visceral descriptions of moments I have never lived but often feel, Lia’s thoughts I never had but often related to, Matthew. The impulse I had to visualize Matthew squirming in rightful pain while asking God: “why him?!“, teary eyed. Those reactions are what I look for when reading.

I am in awe of Maddie, of this woman I don’t know, this woman that doesn’t know me. I never wish to meet her, partly for the reason they advise: “not to meet your idols“ and partly for the reason I would even remotely think of her as my idol having read one of her works and listened to one of her interviews. Such a human fiction writer.

I encourage everyone, especially young women, to read this book if they want to think in disarranged patterns, feel offended and euphoric at the same time, or need a reminder that they can, and so they should.

a non-typical book review for a non-typical experience.

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Once I spotted her from a distance, I noticed she was holding pink peonies, and I couldn’t believe it. Quite literally I said: “No way”, grinning, melting, wanting to cry, for I knew they were for me. We met on the sidewalk, and hugged despite the heat. Both our faces were sticky with dust resting in our smile lines. Hair frizzled from humidity, hearts racing from adrenaline; mine from running, hers from homework. We went straight to chatting: the prime sport of womanhood. I left the house holding nothing but my phone and I offered to carry her tote bag. “These flowers are for you, my friend, and this is your present”, she said as she handed me the bag and the bouquet. “My present?”

We got home, and after light conversation with Red, we went to the couch for me to open up ‘my present’, like a Christmas morning ritual; the bag was filled. “Yes, I couldn’t stop. This is half of it, I grabbed more but I left some in the end. I went into the bookstore and I asked myself What in here is most ‘Sofia’?, but everything was, so I couldn’t stop”. All I could hear was that I am being seen. That a friend is spending time in a bookstore and sees the place as an extension of myself. This is beyond a compliment.

Each present was individually wrapped: a decorative tile, a pen and bookmark - both in powdered pink - , a pencil case, a red wine bullet journal, pastel highlighters, and… the tote bag itself that has a designated slit for placing a book. I could write a detailed paragraph for why each item touched all parts of my being. Why each curated item meant that for the few times I met her, I have been my truest self.

I thanked her for all the gifts saying that even though they are simple objects, the thought behind this bundle she made – for no reason but the kindness of her heart, as it were – confirmed my self-expression.

Four hours passed and we spoke about filters, about the genuineness (or lack thereof) in conversation these days. About generations and relationship dynamics. About kids and what making a space one’s own entails.

She listened to me so beautifully, silently soaking in what I say.

Seeing each other outside office hours for the first time, she didn’t just gift me inanimate confirmation of my truest existence but the gift of being seen, heard, and appreciated.

She called me ‘rare’, a romantic, ‘deep’. We waved each other goodbye until her bus was out of sight. The loose skin on my upper arm sore from shaking, and I turned around smiling, because I knew I would write again. Her witnessing my depth inspired me.

Anna, a pearl on God’s string, may you feel as seen as you made me, on this one random hot day in June.

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This is the first spring of my life in which I felt its arrival. As a student, everyday is the same, every season interchangeable, the only awaited events of the year are the deadlines and the holidays: the days where you get a little boost of confidence to not be at your laptop or think in theories, but to pay attention to your surroundings.

I said this to Red, and I will say it again: there will be a few more times this year where I will find myself caught by the realization that I do something again for the first time.

The days are longer, the weather kinder, the sun brighter, and my heart lighter. For the first time, this spring.

I remember the first days in late February where people weren’t facing the ground so scrunched up any more, but looking up, showing one another birds, garden layouts, people in the distance they recognized, raising an arm to greet them. Because now it’s worth it, now everyone has energy, now we are ‘up’ for it.

One evening, a bald, well-built mid 40’s worker passed me. His clothes all chalked up, boots unlaced, back of his neck sunburned; in his left hand he was holding three kinds of pre-sliced, white bread, and a bottle of tropical juice. A block of cheese was carefully placed between his rib cage and his seemingly sticky, equally sunburned forearm. His right arm was busy holding up his phone, taking a somewhat embarrassed photo of the sunset at the end of the street, it’s bright orange marmalade melting behind the concrete. I am happy he did that, sheepishly. He made me look up too - my kind of community service.

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I remember the times I would wake up early to get some studying done before the birds’ songs could be heard. I wanted to be fully immersed, I wanted to be bathed with their singing. Sometimes I would plan the tasks I was dreading the most around that time of day so I can feel soothed but it never worked. My spirit was stunned every time, like a cartoon character trailing blissfully towards those sweet flying whispers of reassurance. I was so attuned to them my body would freeze and I’d have to stop and listen. Nowadays, their evening songs are reaching me more; their announcing of the day’s end bring me that deep breath I need, to come back to myself before I leave my body again in sleep.

The deer are back, the hares too; every other morning on my way to work I see a deer or three, a hare or two; I wish them well, and as the bus keeps on driving I pray that they don’t starve, freeze or get hurt.

I went into the attic, zipped open one of my suitcases and trailed my fingers through my colorful summer dresses. Their fabric still smelling of hay, their touch so soft and airy I immediately tasted the sand in my mouth I often had from the windy beaches I visited in late August last year.

I started to think of ice cream again.

All those promises I make to myself at the beginning of a new year, on my birthdays, on my bad days; they all get another chance at fulfilment once spring has sprung.

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Since taking the photos for this post I have finished my main read of the pile which only sheds light into more sporadic bursts of inspiration, and moods that I tend to experience such as getting an idea to write a post here and then blinking my moods ways for two weeks until I actually do it. Still, as I write this I am in the middle of 9 books, all different between each other which is a great motivator for me to get another pile of 5+ books on my night stand after I get through all of those. Comically, I stacked them involuntarily in order of my starting them, that is they are chronologically accurate. I will start with the one that has been screaming my name the longest which is Too Much of Life by Clarice Lispector.

Clarice Lispector was a Brazilian author that has completely hypnotized me before I read her for myself. Some people I follow online have been talking about her work and it pulled me like a magnet. It was almost offensive to my psyche that something like her body of work existed for long stretches of time, decades, and I learned about her in my mid twenties. And yet, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Red gifted me this book a long time ago and I took it with me to our first trip to Romania, in 2023. Yes, I brought this mastodon with me traveling. Yes, it was 2,5 years ago that I started it. Yes, I read 27 pages and stopped*. But here is the thing, I was devouring every sentence with obscene amazement at what was coming out of this woman’s brain. I was frustrated and overwhelmed at how good literature can be and it made me want to gate-keep myself from reading more. Every other paragraph I had to stop reading and gaze into the glaring sun so that I would, at least, have a reason for my eyes to burn and not just my head. Her genius would yell out of the simplest sentences. It was too good for me to read it at a time where I simply wanted to escape thinking, since it would make me do the complete opposite. So this year I will gift myself the pleasure to spend time in Lispector’s inner universe fully.
*Note: last summer I read An Apprenticeship or The Book Of Pleasures by Lispector while taking a break from thesis writing. It was at once a blur and the most intense couple of hot, eye squinting days spent physically in my back yard, and mentally in a world of clear anomalies.

I got When the Body says no by Gabor Mate on my birthday, as part of my tradition to get a new self-help* book as a gift to myself once a year. I started it in the summer, highlighted a bunch, that is until the middle of the second chapter and then I put it to the side. Main reason being my starting of a new job, preparing to defend my Bachelor thesis and realizing I have spent more than half a decade in a foreign country, all in the same period - the content of Mate’s brilliance was a lot. It opened my eyes towards the (now) obvious ways stress accompanies me in the day to day affairs and I couldn’t handle it.
*for lack of a better word… every time I hear ‘self-help’ my stomach churns, simply due to its extensive use by a particular group of people that I find superficial. The idea is indeed to help myself through gaining knowledge from the books I get – thus linguistically the genre name is per se accurate, audibly is appalling… moving on.

As most of Gen Z, and not only, December saw me with a lot of enthusiasm to start afresh soon and energetic to complete things fast. I read the introduction of Anne Lammot’s Bird by bird to ease into a literary project I gambled myself on. Started at the intro, stopped at the beginning. Will get back to it in installments, I am sure.

Going back to summertime, I picked up Anne Sexton’s Mercies, a collection of poems. My mind is full of matter and whirling with muted colors after reading half of the copy I own. Sexton’s view on the female experience as a lover, a mother, an adult carrying its inner child at all times brought me to moments of breathlessness, literally. The collection was gathered and organized by her daughter, and I cannot but wish to imagine how that must have felt: to get to know your mother most intimately through the sheets of paper of which words stick to you like leeches. I recommend it only to those that enjoy putting effort in understanding the simplicity of madness.

Once in a while I pick up a short story collection from my shelves. This time I picked up one of the first books I ever got from a little free library: The rest of life by Mary Gordon, a collection of three novellas. I read the first one in November like Belgian Malinois eat raw steak – in one gulp, wanting more like I had none. That is all I have to say, because angrily I stop ashamed for not writing notes while reading it; it deserved more attention than I had to offer at the time. A reread is due and a review thereafter as well.

The Symposium by Plato – it got me at ‘there were three genders’. Haven’t finished reading it. Haven’t gathered my thoughts thus far either.
On another note, Seneca’s letters… curriculum appropriate for high schoolers. If I get to build up hope for the generations born after 2010, it would be only towards the ones that read, at least, this book. I have yet to prod my 15 year old brother to read it as I quite frankly don’t have the skills to market it properly to him. I reared it, re-highlighted it (an experience deserving it own little essay), and am under the impression that it will be long from now when I would remove it from my nightstand. The best sheets to be in-between so far.

Jasmin, the living flower of my carefully gathered bouquet of friends, very kindly gifted me The Gardener’s Year by Karel Capek. Once could read it in a day, but it is so gentle, so softly trashing my nerves with gardening minutiae that I have to give myself the time to take it in slowly, at small doses, every other week. The wait never fails to put a smile on my previously clenched face. As I think it’s true for most things we voluntarily and patiently wait for.

At last, George Orwell… I lent Books vs Cigarettes to a coworkers, and thus my time with it spontaneously came to a pause, in which I am still happily residing in. 1984 was my main read of January, together with Jasmin, I embarked on starting the new year with a … resource of fear turning gratitude. I am happy to have finally read it. An essay on that might come next…

Until then… I have to stop writing about reading and get on with it.

Seneca’s letters are part of the stack of books I am in the middle of. Middles that will see me off in the New Year, the in-betweens that keep me related to the one I was in 2025, the endings that will bring me closure, satisfaction and metaphysical rewards in 2026.

Another reread of this year was the first book in Sue Townsend’ Adrian Mole series, it made me laugh out loud, gasp, roll my eyes; I often held my book with the left hand and touched my heart with the right. The first time I read the book, in 2023, I found it funny, the second time, I found it sad. Funny that, isn’t it? I managed to get my (second) hands on the whole series, each different editions, shapes and size, the best way to collect one’s work if you ask me.

I listened to a lot audio books and I discovered Ayşegül Savaş; a Turkish author of stories holding such minute details of most uniquely ordinary lives that I got to feel understood, and I am not Turkish. As with any audio book, king is the narrator, however any time I browse the book store I look for this author just in case I get to buy any of her books to bring home and experience her writing and sentiments for a second time but through my own voice.

I started reading poetry; Red bought me ‘Devotions’ by Mary Oliver, a gesture that only strengthened my own devotion to him. A kind gesture, a quiet sign of “I see you”, a silent recognition. I am sure I did Oliver’s collection a disservice - keeping my trained novel reading habit by racing through each poem one after the other with little time for feeling and reflection in between. What I can say is that it softened me.

This year I experienced my first ever buddy read making my list of books that made me weep reach number 5, namely: James Frey’s ‘A Million Little Pieces’. I bought Kevin Coyne’s The Party Dress on a whim in my bookish adventures and have been pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed it – I wrote a post about it so I’ll stop at mentioning it. I borrowed Paul Lynch’s ‘Prophet Song’ from my school’s library and have enjoyed it so much that (once again) I was divinely blessed with finding an immaculate second hand copy of it while I still had around 20 pages left of it – great find.

Another great find starts with a wonderful little backstory. I keep mentioning my local bookstore like broken record but if you would count all the times I include it in any story of mine, be sure to multiply that by 10X for the accurate frequency I offer it. Anyway, during one of my visits early this year I was gifted a book.
I was at the counter paying for one of the many stacks I bought this year and I noticed a cool copy of a Dostoevsky on the corner shelf. It was a collection of short stories including Notes of Underground in the Wordsworth Classics’ edition and the clerk asked me if I had read it. Gloomily, I said that I have only read White Nights and Bobok from that collection and what clerk did next brought me to tears. He took off the bar code he just placed a few minutes before along side all the other books needing pricing, cleared off the sticker glue and pushed it towards me: “for you, as a gift”.
That stuck with me, it stuck so hard that, fast forward to late October, Red and I were browsing another bookstore in Romania and he found The Brother Karamazov in the same edition, dirt cheap. The we found The Idiot, then The House of the Dead & The Gambler, and then Devils, all in the same edition as the one I was gifted, all offensively cheap. My mom ordered Crime and Punishment for us later that day as we couldn’t find it at the bookstore.
We now own the majority of his works in the same edition, placed between two decorative ceramic houses on top of our mantel piece – my favorite bookish memory.

I will end with the most difficult and worthwhile part of my bookish year: visiting Europe’s biggest book market in Deventer. I held onto this piece of information since it first landed with me back in 2022. I planned for it, Red and I made sure to book a stay nearby the city and a forest for Chase (our doggo), we drove three hours to get there, I had a rough list of titles to be on the lookout for, rare findings, odd editions, and the like.
I arrived around 11am, two hours after it’s opening, overwhelmed with its swarms of people, bought a way too expensive tote bag as merchandise and evidence of my attending, turned around feeling panic, crying, feeling lost, and calling Red to pick me up. Naturally, he calmed me down, encouraged me, stayed with me on the phone until we found each other and sprinkled belief in me that I will get through it. And I did. Holding his hand, feeling supported (and loved) I took it step by step, every time thinking of his words of grounding whenever I felt rushed and managed to get a decent taste of the book market.
I left with 14 books, nothing odd, nothing rare, and the biggest pile of books I bought were from guess where… the booth that my local bookstore from over a 100km away had set up. Upon meeting each others’ eyed and realizing what is happening, both the clerk and I had to laugh about it.

I know I said I will end with the previous paragraph, but how about a list of honorable mentions of titles I think are worth giving a chance to:

• Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

• Prophet Song by Paul Lynch

• Air by John Boyne

• Vanishing World by Sayaka Murata

• Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

I ended 2025 as a happy reader. I am entering 2026 the same.

Thanks for reading Zans in print!

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I called this post “PART I“ as I am strictly focusing on context and patterns, for the fact seekers. PART II is for the bookish ones. What I, and maybe you as the reader, would have to keep in mind is that this year was my most intense decade. Yes, I wrote decade, because it felt like one.

Context: in the last years I realized having some sort of tracking system for my readings and books would be beneficial for my psyche; after trial and error, I came to a gentle and undemanding method that works great and am happy to flip through every so often. While I treat buying books and reading them like a pastime and fulltime job, in reality, my year was… eventful: passed three exams that have been haunting me for years, completed my internship, researched for and wrote my Bachelor thesis, left my part-time student job at a cafe, deal with loss, got a big girl job I am fully untrained for, graduated, open my heart to faith, visited my hometown for the first time as an adult with no homework, went on my first work trip abroad, and finally browsed my local bookstore at a leisurely pace without the guilt and shame of procrastination.
I am also in a relationship with a most wonderful man with his own ups and downs of this year, both being proud parents of a smart and loving Dutch Shepherd. Still… I read. I spent a big chunk of the time I could spare whenever I could to be quiet and read.

Pattern: as an avid thrifter, a blessed hand-me-down-ee, a second hand connoisseur, the way I buy books stands within these limits. The average price I pay per book is €6, usually buying at least 2 books at a time, at least once a week.

To put briefly, the end of 2025 sees me with:
- 37 unhauled books (given away)
- 37 acquired books (little free libraries)
- 10 books I got gifted
- a whopping 185 bought books (6 of which I have read in previous years and loved but did not own physically)

Two things here:
1. the fact that the amount of books I have given away equaled the amount I stumbled upon for free is quite divine. What is fun about this is that my local free libraries are so good, the previous year I also acquired 35 books; that shows me good reading taste and plenty of generosity from my neighbourly readers.
2. I bought roughly 100 more books than the previous year; which is understandable for reasons not so exciting to be put into words.

I am proudly unaware of the numbers of books I own at the moment, however I remember my mom saying that if I were to read a book a week it would take me six years to finish what I then owned. ‘Then’, being before I bought 185 books. FYI: I don’t log in every single type of book either, I have plenty of children’s books, YA, and coffee-table books that stay hidden from my tracking.
After being given that food-for-thought, putting in place eight extra bookshelves, yet adding this undemanding, gentle tracking system, I can proudly say that I feel so like myself surrounding by all these bounded stories, calmer than ever, and of course divinely blessed.

As this is about the numbers I will finish with some more:
- I read 36 books (spoiler for PART II: my goal was 24)
- I DNF’d 4 (getting better and better at treating my time right!)
- I started 5 (and am in the middle of)
- I listened to 10 audio books (all great!)

For someone having their focus on books, reading, book podcasts, interviews with writers, and spending the majority of their free time at the local bookstore, I find these numbers rather low. However, it was a great reading year with many bookish activities. More about that in PART II.

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Sign of Tranquility.

Graceful like a Dove.

Serene like the Moon.

Regeneration of Life.

Without the example of her chaste goodness, many women would probably be chattels of men. ‘Let whoever is without sin throw the first stone’; when a stone is flung from the back of the crowd, Jesus looked up and sighed: ‘Not you, Mother.’

The humblest things reminded people of her. She has moistened the world’s dryness, making it fruitful again. Mary is herself a green tree in which all the birds of the air find rest.

You who care for all.

Beautiful Mary, you raised women to a new dignity.

Thy body did not know corruption.

You come, not as the triumphant warrior

In the terrible array,

But as the gentle mother calling, calling thy children to thee.

Your words are sweeter than honey.

Your eyes are beautiful and gentle.

We have no fear of thee.

You hear the cry of your children;

You, their mother, will hasten to help.

You gladden the hearts that mourn.

You dry the eye that weep.

Mother of the widow and orphan.

Safe home of the outcast.

Thy smile is peace.

Mary, the Mystic Rose, guarded her silence like a jewel. Without saying or doing much, she made history. She became the consoling Mother of the world. The wonder of Mary is that she is not a goddess but a human being who lived a life of perfect conformity to God’s will. She was marvelously content. She spread contentment. She lived fully each moment. ‘There’s too much joy in this moment to want to pass it on.’ She went slowly, methodically, contentedly, along the vines, never missing a grape. Never eating one, either. ‘Tomorrow’s bread has no taste for me; today’s is sweet enough.’ She was the best example of life-giving power of selfless adoration of God.

Dear Lady of the Cherries, cool, serene

Untroubled by our follies, strife, and fears.

Being a woman, she surrounds herself with light and joy. Nowhere in her palace are hints of fear, punishment, or damnation. Angry at times, she remained a woman who loved grace and beauty, especially in her robes and jewels. She reveals, by word and example, how to know, love, and praise God. Mary is nothing for her own sake, but all for Christ’s sake. She does not wish us to come to her, but through her to God. She is nobility, wisdom, and holiness personified. We can never honor her enough, though honor and praise must be given her in such a way as not to injure Christ or scripture.

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The compilation of stories is absurd, ridiculous and brilliant, for the most part. The kind of stories that ‘change’ with each read. Any sentence can twist the plot at any time. At the start of a new paragraph, I could expect the unexpected. Each story starts with one idea, followed by a structured, concise stream of consciousness, ending with the former idea in a most satisfactory way. That is if my mind would ever go to the places this author brought me to, willingly. Some stories are one paragraph long, others three pages at most. It didn’t read like a collection of individual stories but more so an interview with the deepest part of the author’s unheard opinions, sipping cheap beer. Genius dialogues holding great socio-political depth. And while many paragraphs made no logical sense, there were these lost phrases that would make me look up from the book and see the sky clearer on the gloomiest day.

Subjectively, the best part of having read this collection is the writing style, its humorously cynical and dry narration reminding me of Carson McCullers. I read The Ballad of the Sad Café in 2021, adored it, found nothing else like it thus far. Kevin Coyne brought me back into a little corner of my mind where I am a misunderstood peasant that acts as if she understands everything. A pitiful character in a merciless world.

“Everything that happened in life confirmed my deepest suspicions of humanity; that 99 percent of communication was vanity and hot air”.

It gave me the best reading hangover remedy. It’s a shame all ends.

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PS: everything is true besides the things I made up.

A woven basket for blankets. For the days that you are free to stay at home and wander from room to room wearing one blanket as a cloak and having another on the sofa, misplacing mugs and forgetting your phone charger upstairs so you end up gazing at your back yard for an hour because you don’t want to get out of the warmth you created for yourself in between those blankets.

A woven basket for socks.

Miniature tables and chairs as plant stools. Grabbing them as you go in your visits to the thrift store for ‘other’ things.

Or when you went to the flea market in your lunch break, hoping it would be successful and it would make you late for the second half of your shift. And after making multiple rounds trying to give your last cash to a seller for anything vintage looking, you bought a three legged table that is actually quite beautiful. It doesn’t hold much but it fills up the corner of the living room perfectly; a conversation starter nonetheless.

Vases, all shapes and sizes, colors and textures. A vase for each windowsill, for each shelf. Even though vacant, you can remember all the bouquets they held, all the laughter surrounding it.

How that one birthday dinner, the champagne bottle popped straight into the lightbulb, the glass pieces fell next to the Monstera plant on the floor, and the candles of the cake reflected in the vase in such a way that it felt right to have had that shock followed by a quiet moment while everybody was gathering their shoes to prevent cuts.

A wall designated to books. A simple shelf, wooden, from one end of the wall to the other. Unorganized in harmony.

Mismatched chairs, paintings!

What is home? You know…

We all heard the anecdote: “Home is where the heart is”. I get it, I feel that too sometimes. 

Is there even a difference between the what and the where?

If you’d ask me what is home, I’d say my house – which is temporary, some members of my family – which is harsh and unconventional, my friends – which are away, a sense of comfort, of familiarity, of warmth.

A rare sense of ease, when I breathe so effortlessly I forget I exist in the eyes of others; that my feet are touching the ground and tasks await me. That time won’t spare me unless I move.

So what is home? A bunch of senses, depending on the day. 

If you’d ask me where is home? I’d say my house again – which is temporary, my room at my mom’s house – where I spent my high school years and yet with each day passing it gets emptier, so then… what will become there for me to call home, the grey walls that heard everything and the furniture that held my fingerprints for a few years? Maybe, probably.

A small village in the Carpathian mountains, a couple of bookstores in Bucharest, Cismigiu (a park I often long for, near the church I was baptized in), both my grandmother’s apartments – a subject that deserves its own essay. I could go on, but I strive for simplicity.

So where is home? Multiple places, locations, time zones and climates; all at once, resting within me, in my memory and heart.

What is your take on this? Do you have a home? Are you a home? For yourself? For someone else?

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Monday – 15th of April

We stayed in since it was pouring outside the whole day. I wore a pretty dress and done my makeup nicely, even put oil in my hair. I am trying to embody my version of femininity around the house more and putting effort into my appearance (even if I don’t leave the house) is part of it.

We didn’t walk our dog due to the rain and by the end of the day I felt my very first minutes of “mom guilt”. Writing this now makes me feel silly about it, we treat her well. We give a lot of love and attention to this small being. And still, what if she needs more movement and dog time, then human cuddles and kisses? To ponder on...

We also ran out of salt, and eating our bland dinner made us, once again, appreciate the small luxuries in life.

Tuesday – 16th of April

I had THE interview for an internship I applied a couple of weeks ago. We talked 40 minutes over time and the topic of books held about 20 minutes of the whole meeting, so I’d say we clicked. There is a whole procedure of being accepted and starting with your internship so now we wait...

I walked to the city to meet my two loves. I read while walking around our neighborhood listening to Kate Bush; oh, how i missed good weather.

We had pancakes for dinner and after too much time spent online, I finally logged off and the silence I didn’t know I needed brought me to tears.

Wednesday – 17th of April

I worked for most of the day. I also finished early, and those 15 minutes extra reminded me how much we can do in less than half an hour. How precious each minute of our day is. How silly I can be when I get overwhelmed thinking “I don’t have enough time” for this, that, and the other...

Greeting my two loves this evening was special.

Thursday – 18th of April

Same scenario as yesterday plus the mandatory shower where I clean my hair from the mushroom and sweet potato smell.

Friday – 19th of April

Spent the morning in sweet talks with Red, being vegetables in bed.

Went to the market in pouring rain and heavy wind, but we got the goods (eggs, goat cheese, and honey – Friday market essentials).

Chase (our dog) drooled on the couch during her nap. I watched her doing it like people watch Netflix, my heart is full.

I rounded off the day by trying a new Traditional Classic Italian Tiramisu (not my words) and failed the cream miserably. There was no cream basically, just sweet cheesy milk. I put the dish in the fridge naively hoping that the next day it would harden.

Saturday – 20th of April

It didn’t. The Tiramisu was just a bunch of lady fingers swimming in sweet milk. A sight to see but none I would boast about.

We were picked up by Red’s sister for a family birthday celebration in a nearby village. I needed the misty landscape, the hum of birds, the silence. The wide windows, familiar faces, smiles, and crossed arms around a table full of tea, coffee, and catch-ups. I needed that. Friends are the incredibly valuable for me, but time spent around family makes me shake of fulfillment.

Being away from my own relatives can harden my heart sometimes. It can make my eyes look for flaws and throat tighten. It was a good Saturday.

Sunday – 21st of April

Beautiful catch-up with Alexa on the phone. She said at the beginning of the call that it feels as if we are meeting for the first time in a while, and I got tears in my eyes from excitement and longing.

I called my dad assuming it was his birthday, finding out it would actually be 2 days later. But he was pleased nonetheless with the flowers I showed him and a little strawberry cake I presented in the video call.

We went to the dog park and Chase made a friend. The sweetest thing to see, the guilt was replaced by joy. Ended the day with even more sweet talks with Red, pancakes and a too much time spent online.

Question

What makes talk sweet for you? Is it a person? A topic or a setting? For me it’s the tone of voice and the pace of the conversation. I get it most from Red, and I can’t complain.

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7:30-12:00

We stopped delivering the newspaper, so our mornings start and look different. I woke up after 8am and laid in bed talking to Red until 9:30. He made me breakfast while I got ready for work. His signature toast with cheese and egg. They are the best when he makes them, the eggs boil for just 4 minutes, the bread is perfectly toasted, and the kitchen explodes of tenderness as a result.

12:00-17:00

I was supposed to work until 4pm, but it proved to be a quieter day, so I was home 30 minutes early. We experienced a couple of weeks with no hot water, but since the day before I was struck by the luck of taking a hot shower in the morning, I hoped that I would be gifted the same thing after work.

Not the case though… Red wanted to fix it for me so I waited for about 15 minutes with my jacket on and bags packed near me until I would hear a: “Yea… no, this sucks” in the background which meant that the boiler will not cooperate.

So, I took a shower at the gym, washed my hair, moisturized my body with apricot oil (would recommend) and walked home in the rain. The walk is maybe 2 minutes, so no type of rain would be dramatic.

17:00 – 23:00

Had a call with Alexa talking about books, her exciting (& responsible) adult thing she was planning on doing the next day at work, and my new living room.

Ate two oranges, some pieces of dark chocolate, and walnuts as my dinner.

Browsed the interwebs and debating what dog to get with Red.

Tuesday 20^th February

7:30-12:00

Laid in bed talking about trading markets with Red. I was mainly listening and trying hard to think of considerate questions. I think I did well.

Got ready to have a cute working date together at a café. The girl behind the counter is absolutely stunning, I was almost starstruck.

Read about Benjamin Franklin, wrote this, and slightly worked on my thesis.

12:00-17:00

We moved on to the library for more work and more coffee.

17:00 – 23:00

Watched first season of State Of Union.

Completed some crosswords on: Scientific Terms, Around Austria, Fuels, and C.S. Lewis.

Wednesday 21^st February

7:30-12:00

Woke up at 10:30 - went for a walk.

Talked about a dog while drinking stale coffee.

12:00-17:00

At a grilled cheese, vacuumed, read my first Sci-Fi book.

17:00 – 23:00

Leftover curry with scrambled eggs for dinner and prepared focaccia dough.

Watched the second season of State Of Union, (it’s a short TV show with only 2 seasons and 11 minutes episodes).

Crosswords: ‘F’ Places, Types of Photography, Anna Karenina.

Practiced doing a handstand for about 5 minutes, meaning that I landed on my palms around 20 times until I got dizzy.

Thursday 22^nd February

7:30-12:00

Slept, ate one orange and 2 apples.

12:00-17:00

Slept.

Asked Red to order chicken soup.

Laid on the couch and slept some more.

I think the handstand shook my brain too hard.

17:00 – 23:00

Crosswords: Skiing, Behind the Scenes.

Slept.

Friday 23^rd February

7:30-12:00

Slept until 10.

Ate the other bowl of chicken soup, some bread with cheese, peanut butter and honey (not on the same slice).

12:00-17:00

Went for a long walk. Bought honey and eggs.

I don’t know what else I did, maybe cleaning. The sickness was slowly going away though.

17:00 – 23:00

Put the focaccia in the oven and ended up in the trash. :)

Saturday 24^th February

7:30-12:00

Woke up feeling better.

Made breakfast for Red and I. Almost had a boiled egg and hot water induced breakdown.

Ate bread with raspberry jam to celebrate my grandmother’s birthday.

Called said grandmother to congratulate her.

Had a cry of nostalgia and homesickness.

12:00-17:00

Planned my next week and month (slightly).

Got invited by my mom to Istanbul. (Still thinking about it)

Crosswords: School Subjects, Ducks(check out Canvasback, Eider look for the ones with white feathers, Goldeneye – the one with the green head, Harlequin – art, Smew – Cruella as a bird, Surf scooter – it grows a hole through its peak, and personal favorite the Tufted), Badminton, and Philately

Read some more. I am really struggling to finish a fairly short book which I have been planning on reading for about a year. It’s a bit slow, published in late 30’s about escaping the war. Why I struggle: I didn’t know it was about escaping the war, and again, it is my first Science Fiction.

Ate two more breads with jam… my teeth will probably punish me for it later.

Journaled the way Benjamin Franklin did, taking one virtue at a time.

17:00 – 23:00

Made dinner. One of Red’s favorite easy meals. Rice with baked sweet potato, fried mushrooms, tuna and a little bit of sesame oil. Very convenient.

Discovered we have a mouse. Or two.

Sunday 25^th February

7:30-17:00

Worked.

17:00 – 23:00

Showered at the gym.

Fin.

I am starting to feel like Bridget Jones. Can’t say i hate it.

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That I will book that pottery class and be happy with whatever I get to keep after the session. I kept saying I’ll look up ateliers near me and availabilities or even summer courses. After a year I gave up when I realized how expensive it is to even attend an introductory event. But then I kept saying that it could be a lifetime experience where I break my creativity shell, so any amount of money would be worth it. I since then discovered that I can order kilos of clay on Amazon, search up tutorials online and do it in the comfort of my home for hundreds of euros less.

I keep saying I will do that instead and try my hands at pottery at some point.

I kept saying that I will go to the sauna a couple of times a week. There was a period where I did do that. I am very lucky to live in a neighborhood that has a gym with a sauna. I am also very lucky that I am still a student, so I pay way less for what the place offers. I am aware that this factor will soon come to an end, so the possibilities of enjoying cheap life will be over. It got “harder” to go after they changed their opening schedule for the winter season; instead of being able to melt my stress away from 8am, now I have to wait until 10am.

I keep saying that will change soon.

I kept saying that I will do minor fasting throughout the week. I am in the midst of eating out of boredom, or “because food’s just there”, or out of excitement, or as “breaks”. But it came to a point where my stomach would burst. My throat would constrict at the thought of having dinner knowing that I have already had so many “little snacks” throughout the day that I would be satiated for at least 10 more hours. I never had this issue before; in fact, I was the one to not eat enough. Before, if I would be stressed, I would not eat, and now it is the opposite. I kept saying that if I do eat in the morning, I would just stuff up whatever my heart desires (modestly) until +/- 3pm and then I should be good until the next day.

I keep saying the same thing every day after dinner.

I kept saying that I will set aside time to learn calligraphy. I was always fascinated with handwriting, and being able to change mine on command seemed like a killer skill to have. A party trick, even. I subscribed to YouTube channels where writing fanatics show tips&tricks on which ink is best for what paper, or why I should think about swapping my bullet journal to a pocket notebook. 2 years ago I bought a set of 5 fountain pen nibs with an ink tub and feather as encouragement to get a move on.

I keep saying I will lay out the set, open the ink tub and scribble.

I keep saying I will put up frames in the house, thread bracelets, read that one book, make candles out of all the wax I have recycled that one year, sit in silence more, and repot my plants for a long time now.

…and i keep on saying it. Do you?

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5:30-12:00

Went to deliver the newspaper.

Ripped my jacket with the bag I was impractically carrying.

Got pissed and asked for patience. Got patience and felt grateful that it wasn’t a rainy morning; the stars were showing.

Had tea with Red sitting on the couch (first time we did that since we started delivering the newspaper). We don’t sit in the living room that much.

Practice flash cards for my exams. Spilled tea on said flash cards and my laptop. Laptop’s fine.

Rewrote said flash cards. Got more tea.

Made a book fall out of the shelf, bending its cover (one of the most beautiful one I have).

Practiced finance exercises.

12:00-17:00

Had dinner with Red at 12pm. We tried “the dinner around noon” scheme. Nothing to report yet, but great food.

Went to the sauna.

Cleaned the kitchen while making hot chocolate.

Read a couple of Russian poems, and some pages on discipline. Hemingway’s approach to discipline left a powerful note for me to ponder on:

“Grace under pressure.”

17:00 – 21:00

Had a call with Alexa, about an hour and a half. She made hummus and carrot cake!

Tuesday 16^th January

5:30-12:00

Silent newspaper walk.

Did 3 crosswords, subjects were: Suspension Bridges, Disney, and Steven Spielberg.

Finished a book! The one about discipline. It has taken me way longer than expected, however I did put it away for a whole month. Regardless, it was worth reading the whole thing.

Some quotes i liked:

“When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” – trying to see in which area of my life this applies.

“Rigidity is fragility.”

“Formlessness is unbreakable.”

Made an omellete with the eggs we bought from a very tiny farm near school. It tasted great! I wish I knew about them earlier.

Got ready for class and have given Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence away, for sensible reasons.

12:00-17:00

Got a decaf; didn’t have my own cup with me for the first time in my life, reason being that I couldn’t find any in the pantry I usually go to. Turns out that our school is so sustainable now I had to buy a cup for 2 euros, (the other option was 17 euros and first coffee for free).

Stumbled upon Zoe and had, like always, a fulfilling chat. I feel for her, I hope she can leave school and the city soon. She’s such a gem and I am sure she will thrive in a different setting.

Prepared dinner.

Went through flash cards.

Made hot chocolate and googled a bunch of books.

Found it hard to focus again so I did 2 more crosswords, subject were: Penguins (did you know there’s a species called ‘macaroni’?) and Pasta.

17:00 – 21:00

Prepared dinner for Red and I.

Lit up all the candles in the living-room waiting for him, like I used to in the previous months.

Wednesday 17^th January

5:30-12:00

I stayed in bed until 7:41, Red went to deliver the newspaper. I just laid, turned a couple of times, it was bliss.

Started work at 8:30.

12:00-17:00

There was a new girl having a trial day. She lives in a different city, has reddish curls and blue eyes. She wore an 80’s outfit, too nice to work in a kitchen, has a hunting Portuguese dog, lives with the boyfriend who’s a professional ice skater, reads fantasy and romance. She seemed nice but won’t take the job.

Biked into the city to grab my dad a beard oil and my uncle a mug so I can finish off the Christmas package I created and send it home in the weekend. (Spoiler: i didn’t send it).

16:00 – 21:00

Had a call with mom.

Crosswords of the day: Italian Cheeses, and Online Dating

Thursday 18^th January

5:30-12:00

It snowed last night, and I was, for the most part, the first one on the street. I made a few drawings with my bike tracing. I saw a few pairs of shoe traces accompanied by a couple of dog paws.

12:00-17:00

Practiced a bit. Got confused. Had a small headache and a great walk with shitty snacks.

17:00 – 21:00

Made lettuce wraps… amazing meal. Filling, fresh, and funky.

After giving away a book which made me loathe looking at book covers in general as well as the activity of reading…. on a whim I started a new book which I love (I don’t typically to this before exam week – I get too impulsive). It’s memoir, so double points.

Friday 19^th January

5:30-12:00

Rough start of the day only because I did not follow my plan. Meaning: I went to deliver the newspaper and then straight back to bed until 10. Then I only started studying around 10:30.

12:00-17:00

However, I went so fully into my practicing that in roughly 3 hours I did the majority I planned for the day! Wow… getting work done when you are focused, instead of just to be able to say you ticked it off is immensely gratifying.

All after getting one of the (too)many bitchy responses from a teacher that oh, so loves me…  

17:00 – 21:00

Went for a walk, came across a couple of young gangsters (+/- 10 years old), refused to “play with snow“, got hit in the back of my head with a snowball and another one flew across my face. Picked up a log and threw it at them, got called a f***ing wh**e, ran back home.

Spent the night watching YouTube. I am working on changing that.

Saturday 20^th January

5:30-12:00

Newspapers and chores.

Crosswords: Canals, and Burgers & Toppings.

12:00-17:00

Food and studying.

17:00 – 21:00

Went out to eat garlic and parmesan tenders.

Watched One Life at the cinema. The movie is 1h and 50 minutes. I cried for 1h and 20 minutes.

Made me reconsider volunteering again.

Sunday 21^st January

5:30-12:00

Stayed in bed an hour and a half staring at the ceiling in the dark. I thought for a while; for a while I didn’t think at all, just sat. I was dreading the cold, but I believe overall laying peacefully did me good.

12:00-17:00

Practiced a bit.

Bought groceries, made my famous coconut chicken soup.

Napped.

17:00 – 21:00

Quick call with Alexa, post-nap. First thing she asked when I picked up was if I was sick, and I thought I looked quite pretty.

Ended the night by finishing a book on depression. I flew through it, a definite keeper, close at reach preferably. It should be given as extra readings in high schools.

PS: I am not mentioning the books here, but I will at some point when I accumulate enough for a dedicated post.

How was your week? Any highlights?

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An overweight woman dressed in black (as if it helps) sits before an Asian man. She seems defiant under a pink strand of hair. In contrast, he seems rather certain of himself with the amount of hair gel he wears on a Sunday afternoon.

Both ordered tea - we are sitting in the garden of TheeHuis (Dutch for teahouse), the only thing they serve is tea-, yet I am sure they are the latte with caramel syrup kind of people. A piece of cake for each and both sets of eyes locked to their screens, exchanging looks when pouring tea. The cups are quite small, so their conversation festers at one showing a meme to the other with only a quick snort in response.  

The garden is beautiful, and I am furious.

The yellow flowers are dying, and no one pays attention to them on their last moments. The infinite shades of green around us go unnoticed. The fallen leaves on the pavement are good for nothing but being stepped on by the ignorant foot.

Oh, how I wish the birds would chirp louder so the couple would look up more. Leave those screens, and those memes, and those sweets. Hold each other’s hands, pour each other’s teas, talk about their intricate flavors and what they remind you of. How the smell of autumn travels, courtesy of the wind.

Dream about what trees you want to plant in your garden and what clothes would get muddy as you do it. Convince him to let you wear that sweater he has since high school. Buy matching wellies. Laugh at the thought of it, cock your head up and find shapes in the clouds.

Maybe they are not a couple. Maybe they are the lonely coworkers that equally wanted some judgement free company for lunch.

Maybe I ask too much of society, of love, of life. Maybe I should just do all these things myself and be happy as is.

She’s looking at her watch and the next she’s clearing up the tray of teacups and empty plates. He gets the message, puts his phone down, chugs his now cold tea, not too fussed about her clearing the table.

They get up in silence to leave. She with her chest puffed, nose up, holding her tray. He behind her, straightening his shirt, adjusting his sunglasses and picking up his phone.

I am left with the birds.

It’s time for me to go home.

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Constantin by Iulian Bocai is a 2019 novella set in Bucharest, and while I do not expect to have any readers that know Romanian (my parents and best friend excluded) reading this piece, nor that this book will be translated any time soon I will keep the review short and focus on what it made me feel.

The story is simply about a student’s experience in his college years, renting out a room owned by old and senile, Constantin. At first I thought I was going into a funny story about the naiveté of curious youth into the big cities while trying to fulfil academic responsibilities. A scenario I slightly dabbled with. To my surprise, I finished the book wanting to know more about:

-        The location old Constantin lived at.

-        How he got there.

-        Did he actually ever have a son?

-        Where was all his money coming from?

And why be so sour and intrusive, when all you wish for is warmth and attentiveness?

A question I could ask a sad number of people I’ve encountered.

This book, mentioning streets with bookstores I can find on Google Maps, listing gestures and phrases only my people can relate to, describing squares and districts I came upon in my childhood, and giving me the cold-loving embrace of Bucharest, made me feel at home.

First time, after not many tries, I must confess, that a book transported me to a land I never left but is at hundreds of kilometers away.

It reminded me of home, of simplicity, of poverty and annoyance. Of arrogance and ignorance and stupidity. Of poetry, serenity and humility. Of loneliness and of purpose. It caressed my love of this Latin language I call my mother tongue, something I am slowly becoming proud of.

One of the many lessons I took:

Be more like a peasant.

Looking for a quote, made me almost frustrated and full of lust for wanting to read it all over again. Almost annoyed that I wasn’t going to that I stopped searching and settled for this one:

“To them, there’s no taste left of the bite they just swallowed.”

(translated by me, the effect of it was slightly lost)

I am not sure how useful this text was to you, but if it pushed you to try and read about your place of becoming, I am glad.

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“I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”

Even so, I chose to let it go.

Throughout the years, ever since I started reading, I came to realize that I made somewhat of an unspoken rule to myself, and that is to never leave a book I pick up unfinished.

There are 2 other books that I did not finish before. The first is Dr. Kevin Dutton’s Wisdom of Psychopaths, a self-explanatory non-fiction which I still own. I have not finished it at the tender age of 15/16 when I read it because at some point my attention spam got the better of me.

The second book I found for free in school, I picked it up and took it with me to a trip to Mallorca a year ago. After reading almost half of it, drudgingly, I left it on a rock somewhere in Palma; it is called The Revelations of Dr. Modesto by Alan Harrington. The premise was promising, and I did pick it up because of the cover, but I can’t possibly remember what it’s about, and I think that explains why I didn’t finish it just enough.  

Funny how writing this reflection shows me that both book covers hold “Dr.” on them for one reason or another. It’s funny since I have no memory of reading anything else with doctors or about doctors besides these two, I digress.

The present book in question is one of Kerouac’s works. His travels in the US in the 1950’s, wishing to reach his dream of success, or his version of it. I lent this book from my school library, which I must say is a luxury to have since their curation is becoming impeccable. However, while this is a nonfiction, and about the life of a writer, two categories that I personally use in organizing my physical bookshelves, I would actually stack it in my adventure/travel section.  

I am not sure how much of this has to do with the book itself, but I spent a little over a month reading it, choosing to give it away at page 196; 282 being the whole of it. If I think in numbers, I can say that I missed out on a good chunk and yet I am satisfied.

Kerouac’s writing transports you in a different time, you feel like an American in the wild west, your only priorities being food, shelter and good fun. For that only I consider recommending it to suitable readers. The scenario was this: I was sitting in bed, waiting for tea to brew, and opening up the book knowing I will go back in time and become one of Sal’s gang – crammed in a car they’d stole and wonder where I would end up by nightfall. Once again, a new author to me which I am planning to meet again in further readings.

“‘I like it because it’s ugly’. All his life was in that line. Once I knocked on his door in the 60^th Street slums of New York and he opened it wearing a derby hat, a vest with nothing underneath, and long striped sharpster pants; in his hands he had a cookpot, birdseed in the pot, and was trying to mash the seed to roll in cigarettes. He also experienced in boiling codeine cough syrup down to a black mash – that didn’t work too well. He spent long hours with Shakespeare – the ‘Immortal Bard’ he called him – on his lap.”

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A substantial stack of questions before me and I am at a loss of words. So much to say, yet little capacity to formulate. Well…

• What do you need to do this spring?

As much as the guilt for using my time to take walks, drink cappuccinos and read, I will mention my utmost need to tick some boxes for school. My answer is… I need to do the work. Put in the hours, have the meltdowns and frustrations that come after numerous tries of getting the right answers.

• What needs to begin again?

The drive for curiosity, for learning, for wanting to go further. I want to go further in life, as one does. It just so happens that in my path, certain stones have been thrown upon my seeds and I need to begin, if not continue, to lift them up, and let my seeds cultivate.

•  What grounds need to be prepared?

The seeds of growth, perseverance and confidence need room to stretch. Thus, the stones of fear, doubt and limiting beliefs need sweeping. The ground is prepared enough.

• What needs to be planted?

For the longest time, that is all I’ve done. Plant, plan, prepare, predict. Nothing needs to be planted, just watered.

• What needs to be swept away, because it’s done?

The aforementioned stones. If I only manage to get that done, my horizon will no longer be clouded.

• What new life is here?

Today’s. Tomorrow’s. As I choose, new life is here and everywhere, now and always.

What will be different this time?

Alas, I sit in blockage with this one.

What would your answer be?

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