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I’m typing blind right now. I don’t know if it’s because I can (did the course, obtained a diploma), or because I’m scared for the blank page. But it’s somewhat like the thing I did yesterday, while I was walking back home from the metro. With my eyes closed. Even though it’s a straight line from the station to my home, when I did that, I didn’t know whether I was walking straight or not. I had my headphones on and this particular song just made me do it. Or maybe it happened because I was tired.

In any case, my eyes were closed for some reason and I couldn’t see where I was going. I spread my hands and my fingers out so I could feel the soft breeze. Don’t think I ever noticed that possibility before; can you imagine someone walking with their hands and fingers spread out, the funny sight that makes? Not that I’ve seen it.

And it happened again, I started thinking. What if you lived like this, what if you didn’t know whether you were going straight or not, let alone going in the right direction – let’s imagine I didn’t know the road and I didn’t know the goal, because that is mostly the case with lives, as opposed to residences probably… maybe. I would have to use my senses, and to the maximum because I’m missing one. I should hear what’s happening around me, feel the wind blowing through my fingers, and most importantly smell the bad people from far.

I’ve had these kind of realizations before for some brief moments, but the main question is why it is I only rediscover this once in a while, and how come I only live up to this once in an even longer while? Where are my senses? Sometimes they just appear at the gates as they did yesterday, trying to get out. Most of the times they are starving somewhere in some deep cellar, probably too numb to even try. Once, they were the drawings on my paper, the teddy bear that talked and the mermaid stories that I loved.

The thing is I know they should still be there somewhere, since they show themselves just enough for me to realize. Yet calling them never works. Calling them makes me end up with my head on my desk thinking I have lost them completely.

Ps. Right now I’m thinking “don’t let them mistake me for the woolly kind of type”. And this is exactly what I mean. My senses won’t come out until I’m not ashamed of them anymore.

Pps. My teddy bear talks again and I’m still typing blind.

me at the rhoneBonjour à tous!

It’s been quite a while since I last wrote here, since I wasn’t sure what to write about – in other words, I wasn’t sure to what serious subject I would dedicate my blog. But I’m back, because I have decided! I’ll leave the scientific research and deep investigations into politics and philosophy for study and will only investigate every day life struggles on this blog. Because everyday life often poses  some serious questions.

At the moment, I’m dealing with the question of Lyon, which has been my ‘home’ for a bit more than two weeks now. During the week, I get up early to go my very first 9 to 5 job, which has definitely taught me to appreciate the weekend. When I still studied, oh the good times, I would have been like “oh funny, it’s weekend again”, now it’s more something like “OMG weekend I’m gonna do and see EVERYTHING in just two days”.

But there are definitely advantages to having a summer job in France for a couple of months. I’m really sure I now understand french working culture. It comes down to this: every morning, you get into one or more full metro’s, giving other people as much angry faces as you can. You will find your self in one of two positions: either you got lucky and have your feet glued to the little space on the floor that you’ve just claimed… or you’re trying to get the glued-feet-fool out of your way to claim your own space which you will defend with your life. And your baguette. Somewhat like a swordfight.

I love it. Even though I might be the only one. I might be that foreigner who way too enthusiastically dives into French culture, consciously deciding on every form of behavior expressed to the outside (French) world. I might be that foreigner who comes up with extreme exaggerations, just for the fun of it.

Oh well, je ne sais quoi.

So some time ago I deleted all my posts from here, it was a bunch of random posts, really. So until I’ve decided what to do with my blog next, I probably won’t be posting anything. No clue if anyone reads this but who knows ey.

Here is a story I want to share with you. Some time ago, right when I was about to leave a room for the first time, something pulled me back and said “Stay there. Sit. That’s good, right back where you were. Don’t you dare to try this again.” So I obeyed, and didn’t dare. It’s the easiest, you know. But at the same time incredibly hard as well. After a while I got restless, again, and started tapping my feet on the ground, as I had done once before.

Before we get to the rest of the story, I must tell you that the room I’m sitting in is one that I would recognize with my eyes closed. Everything I know, everything I’ve ever known is there. At exactly the same place I know it to be. I put it there myself, or it was put there by people I know – most of those moments I can still recall. At first the room was empty, but with time passing by it got more and more stuffed. The funny thing is that by now, I have lots and lots of the same things. Actually, they are all the same to me.

Now you know. So, after a while I started tapping my again feet because of some indefinable restlessness. In this particular room, the tapping was an unfamiliar sound. Even though it was now heard for the second time, astonished faces appeared out of the blue and were all looking at me. Why would I tap my feet? How did this even occur to my mind?

To be honest, the first time I didn’t even know it was me. I was just as surprised as everyone by the weird, ticking sound. Why were they all staring at me? I felt there was something going on, not only did I know that from the gazing but I it was in my body as well. Everywhere. By then I realized that I would have to find the cause if I wanted it to stop… something I was not yet sure about. Looking at myself, something was indeed different. My feet were moving like I had never seen them move before. Yet in a way, it felt good to introduce something new to the room I knew so thoroughly.

At this point I was stuck in confusion. I couldn’t stop tapping my feet on the ground and the faces kept staring. I also acknowledged that I didn’t want to stop, but all the staring was making me feel really uncomfortable. I felt a sudden urge to leave the room – that seemed to be the only option.

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So I did. Once again, I felt everything in the room was trying to pull me back into my place but this time I would not be convinced; if I did, it would only start all over again. An enormous effort to open the door… and emptiness. White, blank walls were welcoming me, yet at the same time frightening me. I didn’t see where they began nor where they ended. How could anything ever be this empty?

But I quickly noticed that the emptiness wasn’t lasting. The room stuffed itself when I breathed. Very slowly, while I became more comfortable in it. The best part was, I actually liked the little furniture and decoration that was now in there, it was quite familiar and it comforted me. My feet were relaxed by then and I started walking around, walking along the wall with my hand discovering where it went and where it turned. I imagined how nice the place would look after a while. And it definitely did.

But I got too used to it, I got to know it thoroughly. No hint of emptiness was left, the room was stuffed to the very ceiling. The worst part being that everything was put there by people I got to know, or I put it there myself… although it was quite a different room than the last one, it felt all quite the same to me again. And my feet twitched. And the people looked as I saw a new door appear, through which I escaped.

This process went on for quite some time. Every time I got bored, I would discover a door which would lead me to a new room. And I would always promise myself that ‘this’ room would never bore me, that ‘this’ room would be different. Knowing that in the end, I’d never keep my promise. Doors kept on appearing, and I couldn’t help opening each and every one of them.

I would never go back, though. It was like I was trying to get through a maze; but  somehow I thought that every step back would mean that the end was even further away, so I kept on going only forward.

Then the thought occurred to me that the maze could be never ending and that the doors would never seize appearing…

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