Scatter-Brained and Awesome

Today I feel nothing but happiness.

I want to stand at the top of the Giralda and scream to the world and share the pure, shiney happiness that I feel.

This is how I feel:

Bring it on, World, show me what you've got. I can handle it.


It sounds so corny and cliché, but despite the minor things, the small, petty day-to-day shit that makes me irritated for half a second, I am finally, for the first time in a VERY long and grueling time, content in my life and my choices. This truly means a lot and much effort is needed to think this thought of contentment, let alone to say it in words. I have come so far to be at this place. To be standing where I'm standing, experiencing the things I do each and every day.

Granted, I have made mistakes, I have lost friends, created enemies, burned bridges, and screwed up more times that I'd ever be willing to attempt to count. But never once in these last few months that I have set out to find myself have I missed opportunities or wasted moments I very well knew would be gone forever.
Instead, I have met some of the most fantastic, caring, and genuine people on this planet who are nice enough to call me a friend. (Shout out: Tahnee, Becky, Aaron). I have come to terms with the people who bid me ill will and who have turned their backs on me. I have blown out the flames of those torched bridges, and where they once stood, newer, stronger, better ones are beginning to take form. And for all those mistakes and screw-ups and misfortunes I have caused myself and others, I am now standing on sturdy enough ground to say with confidence that I am strong enough to move past them. I am able to admit my wrongdoings, to stand up and say out loud, "I DID SOME SHIT. OH, AND SORRY, BY THE WAY." And I will do what I can to make amends to those broken pieces that are scattered about in my life.

I get the stupidest smile on my face as I write this, when I think these thoughts. I HAVE COME SO FAR.
I am here. I am in the place. I am at that moment in my life where everything (nay, most things).... actually, no... Let me start that sentence over:
I am at that moment in my life where NOTHING makes sense, where I have no idea what will come at me next, but I am so damn excited that it makes me giddy inside. I have no idea where I will be going to school in the fall. I have no idea if I will be living in Chicago for the next 2 years (!!!!!) or if I will even make enough money this summer to afford an apartment even in the shittiest part of town. I don't know what I'm doing once I finish my program, or what I even want to be when I finally (if ever) "grow up".
Nothing is clear or cut or organized in any fashion whatsoever.

Where I used to think I was a very tidy, organized, rigid person, I am now someone whose  clothes are strewn about, whose planner is full of cross-outs, and highlights, and sticky notes. I have fully adopted the Spanish lifestyle, and when I don't get my afternoon siesta, I could kill people. I'm rarely ever on time, so when I say, "See you at 4," it's likely that around 4:27 Tahnee is calling me as I'm jogging out of my house, still putting on my coat. "I'll be there in 2 minutes, I swear." (It takes about 11 minutes to get to our usual coffee place from my house).  
I am now this chaotic, untamable, hot-mess of a person. Fuck, I even had bright pink hair for a few months. I love it.

Nothing is where is should be, which I am realizing now is this imaginary place that I fabricated in my head to be an impossible standard. Nothing should be anywhere.

Where it is, is simply where it is.

Throughout this whole process, one that has been struggling to find the motivation to begin for quite a long time, I have seen glimpses of this person I have become today. Little snippets, ones that went away just as quickly as they came. Now that I am this reborn person, I don't even remember what it was like to be as structured and pain-in-the-ass-like as I used to be.

For the first time in my life, I enjoy not having a plan.
Did you hear that, Abbie?
Did you hear that, Mom??

I DON'T HAVE A PLAN. 

.....

(idonthaveaplan)

I have no idea what I'm doing.
If it seems like I do, it's just because if I act like I've got it all together, you'll think I'm less crazy.
But I don't. And I love it. (and I'm also insane).


Also, here's a camel:

The Mirror

I can't help but think about how far I have come in these few short months here in Spain. I am reminded of who I used to be and I compare her to the person I see standing in the mirror, in my wonderful host mom's bathroom, in this gorgeous house, in the most brilliant city, in gorgeous Spain.
I hardly recognize the person who stares at me in this window when I think about the messy-haired, sloppily-dressed, tired-looking shell of a human that once stood where I stand.
I also think about distinct moments that were very, extremely low. I compare those moments to when I am the most happy here.

When we were in Portugal this past weekend, I felt the most content, happy, at ease I think I have ever felt in my entire life. I wasn't especially elated, or excited about anything in particular, but nothing was pressing on my mind, nothing was sticking out as a thorn in my side or and there was nothing I needed to be particularly worried about. I sipped on fresh fruit juice and stared out at the Atlantic Ocean, squinting to see a place I came from back in January. The ocean that day was a mirror of my life. It showed me blemishes, it showed me the hair standing up, the food in my teeth.
Of course I could not see Michigan, or my house, or my family, but memories seeped in, squeezed their way into my happy place. My mood was not brought down when I was reminded of times that were the opposite of serenity and joy, but I was just the more appreciative of the people I have surrounded myself with here, of the choices I have made to feel happiness, and of the life I have begun to build.

I recall a long car ride. I had to say goodbye to my best friend who pulled me from a very vulnerable and dark place. She shook me and all but carried me to her car. She listened as I spoke at her. She stuck it out with me when I had nothing positive to say about myself or about my general outlook. She defended me when I dripped with negativity, when I said things I shouldn't have said. She sat with me on her kitchen floor. She held me while I slept (even against my will, because her snoring is horrendous). When I had to say goodbye to her, I knew it would be difficult. I didn't look back as the driver and I pulled away and onto the road that would lead me back to a place I had desperately needed to escape from just three days prior.

I remember this as I stared out, looking past the ocean, looking beyond the sky.

My head bounced on the window as we drove along, rain (of course it was raining) dripped down the glass, the moon poked in and out behind the somber clouds. I remember the feeling of running out of tears, not wanting to speak, considering opening the door and not holding on. I remember coming home to an empty apartment, one that was at one time full to the brim with love and passion.
I remember the mirror; the look on the face of the girl who was too cowardly to even look me in the eye.
I remember sleeping alone, with the window open, the rain leaving a pool on the carpet. I remember not caring. I remember not wanting to wake up, ever. I remember the effort it took to breath, the ton of bricks on my chest, on my stomach.

This is what I thought of as I sat in Lisbon with friends that I know I will keep for the rest of my life. These memories are the ones that occasionally creep up at the worst and most inconvenient times. These are the memories that allow me to appreciate the happy, the brilliant, the amazing experiences I have had and will create here and in my future life someday.

Lisbon was amazing. I love that I have the ability to freely travel to different countries, to see different and new cultures, and to be a citizen of the world. It still amazes me everyday that I am here, that I am the person that I am, living in the place that I'm living. I love every piece of my life on this very day.


These are the memories that allow me to see just how far I have come, about who I am no longer.

These memories make me feel weak because they existed at one point.
They also make me feel strong that they are simply memories now and no longer reality.

But, after all, these memories are just memories now; a reflection of what once was.

So that Gaudí guy- He was pretty cool

I was in Barcelona two weeks ago. It was incredible. 
There is an artist/architect named Antoni Gaudí whose work you can see everywhere you turn in Barcelona; in every souvenir shop, on literally every street corner, on each map and guide book of the city you see- Gaudí is there. The style he used in his art is very distinctly his own, and is not particularly easy to define. He really is one- of- a- kind, but to me his art was much more than that. 
I am not a huge artsy person. While I can appreciate talent and hard work, sometimes I find it rather difficult to understand more abstract pieces or art that I think a 2-year old could do. I felt this way when we visited the Picasso museum in Malaga- sometimes I could hold value in his work, while other times, seeing odd cubism paintings and weird brush strokes, I just simply didn't "get it". 
I felt differently about Gaudí for some reason, though, despite his masterpieces being extremely abstract and hard to grasp. It sounds weird to say, but I felt connected to him through his art during my time in Barcelona. 
The first Gaudí art I feasted my eyes upon was the Casa Batlló, an oddly placed, colorful building that stood stoically on what seemed like an ordinary street corner. Suddenly while walking down the sidewalk it was there. The front of the building has several balconies that look like skeletons or Mardi Gras masks, and the entire front is covered in glittery tiles. 

I didn't do any research about Barcelona before coming, so everything we saw and experienced while there was a complete surprise to me, which was so fun and let me learn about the city as I was in it, rather than reading about it ahead of time. In that same regard, I am very glad I didn't see pictures of Gaudí's art before seeing it in real life, with my own eyes. I still am unable to fully put to words how I felt about that first building, but I knew that I liked what I saw. 
We didn't make it up to the rooftop unfortunately, which I hear is an amazing sight, but we continued on in search of more of his work. 
It is extremely cliche to say that I fell more and more in love with Gaudí with every work we saw of his, but it is so true. I not only started to appreciate his whimsical corridors, the lack of straight lines, the contract between the inside and the outside of each building, but I really started to connect on a more personal level with his style of art. 

Here's the thing, also I feel this is about to get very words-y and not make much sense: Most of the time I feel weird. I feel out of place, like I don't particularly belong in one place for a long enough time to call it my own. I have difficulty putting words to feelings, and most of the time what I say and the emotion I portray to the world is only a fraction of how I honestly feel inside or what I really would like to say. Sometimes I have the honest thought that the physical world that we live in right now doesn't have the capacity to express what goes on with me internally. Words usually are inadequate, but they are the best I can do to show others how I feel and in the way I do. I think that if I could purely express myself, it would be in a way that no one could understand. I am not saying that other people don't also have depth or complexity, but I am in a constant and tiring struggle to make other understand particularly and exactly what I mean at any given time. 

This all being said, I think this is how Gaudí felt. I think this helps explain his art. He did not see the physical world in the same way that most people do. He saw vivid color. He saw swirls and waves and nature and so many other things instead. Also, as a side note, it makes me wonder about his psychological well-being, in that, for a very stretched example, people who suffer from, let's say, body dysmorphic disorder, do not see in the mirror (which is a direct reflection of the physical world, obviously) what is actually there in this physical world I'm talking about. So, Gaudí obviously could see with his eyes, but the way in which he interpreted color, structure, design were very different from how it actually is. 

I remember saying out loud, which came out very weird- and broken-sounding, while we were on the roof of Casa Milà that I kind of "get" this Gaudí guy. I see where he's coming from. I said that if I was more creative and had better outlets of expressing myself (i.e. sculpture, painting, architecture design) that my art might look like his does. I can see this in the way that I write, for instance I don't write chronologically, I usually forget what I wanted to say in the first place, and I am constantly interrupting myself and adding interjections and explanations along the way. If I designed a building the way I tell a story, the top floor would be somewhere in the middle, there would be winding staircases, bright and insane colors, no sense of what is up or down or even straight or curved. This is why I think my mind sees the world similarly to how Gaudí's did.

It really became apparent when we were at Park Güell. Below these beautiful and ornate benches drenched in mosaic tiles, is an opening out to where the famous Salamander is located. In the opening are maybe 30 or so columns that hold up the roof and on the ceiling in various parts are wonderful mosaic pictures and designs. Again, the colors make your eyes water because of the brilliance. This area wasn't too Gaudí-esque until I noticed that the very outside columns were not upright, but rather slanted inward just a tad. It created a whimsical and unreal sense of distance and distorted the ceiling, making it seem almost unstable. I loved this touch to the architecture, because I "got" it. I said to myself, "Yes, those columns should be tilted in, yes those mosaics should be placed in this specific place". 

Then there was La Sagrada Familia. When I try to make sense of it and put words to it, they fail miserably. This church is literally the only of its kind in the entire world. We have seen many cathedrals while being in Europe, and they all seem to mash together after a while. They are all gorgeous in their own sense, but they are mostly all built and structured in a similar manner. The fact that La Sagrada Familia was not like the others made me fall even more in love with it. 
I remember the group of us, Olivia, two friends from South Africa we met in our hostel, and myself were laughing, having a jolly-good time, talking loudly, etc as we approached the main door of the church. Once we stepped through the doors, sentences were literally cut of mid-word. When I say our mouths hung open in awe, I am not exaggerating. I still cannot describe it.

We learned later that while Gaudí was a very religious man, he also was very interested in nature and the world. This is very apparent in La Sagrada Familia. The columns that seemingly stretch up to heaven branch off like trees at the ceiling. The internal skeleton is all a pristine shade of white or light gray, and the way he structured the stained glass, with the brightest and most magnificent colors in the entire world, shone just so, in a way that is impossible to say with words. 
The sun was beginning to set as we were there, so the light that came in through the windows dripped over the columns in the deepest shade of scarlet, grass green and Caribbean blue stained the floors, and my skin turned every color of the rainbow as I walked along the windows. This place of worship wasn't a secret one, there were no tiny, locked doors, gated- off alters, or curtains covering the whispers of the Catholic church. Instead the entire world Gaudí had created was open, airy, peaceful. I felt serene and at ease. I was not crowded and being screamed at by Baroque-style Marys and Jesuses and I wasn't forced to be quiet, although everyone was anyway. No obnoxious gold hung from anywhere, no velvet was draped, no melancholy was felt. 
Sun shone through windows on the ceiling, the columns seemed to be light from within. A fresh, light smell was in the air, and when I looked around, I saw Gaudí everywhere. He was in each corner, in every column, in every inch of vivid stained glass. Although I am not a religious person, I felt closer to the universe spiritually than I have ever felt in any Catholic cathedral. I understand Gaudí's connection to nature, and I felt that connection via him, myself. It was as though this was his last way to give the world a chance to see what the inter-workings of his mind were like. It was as though, because he knew he would never see the finished product (they are still building it to this day) while he was alive, he entrusted in others to interpret what he might have wanted it to be like. He knew that he was not the only person in the world who saw the world as he did, he knew that there were other weirdos out there. 

I feel as though I was a part of his vision, I comprehended and felt what he wanted me to feel and understand. I was a part of that building, thus I was a part of Gaudí. 


We spent nearly 2 hours in the cathedral, learning about the different types of columns, drinking in the colors, walking along the roof. I just hope that someday when I take my children, and then later take my grandchildren to see this amazing sight, that I will say "I was here when there were only 4 steeples, when the stained glass was still incomplete". 
I hope other people feel the way I felt going into La Sagrada Familia that day. I would give anything to share the love and the magnificence with everyone. Just as Gaudí did.

La Casa Batlló 

On the roof of La Casa Milà 

The only picture I got inside La Sagrada Familia because naturally my camera died just as we entered the most beautiful place in the world. 

Anyway, you can see the "tree branches" at the ceiling, and the stained glass colors reflecting off the columns. This photo does nothing to do it justice. I'm almost ashamed to share it. 

Milan

Though I have been living in Sevilla for over a month now, most days seem unrealistic and dream-like. How can it be that I am living in the most beautiful city in the world? How is it that I get to see and experience and taste and smell and touch one of the richest and most colorful cultures? Surely I have done nothing in my life that makes me worthy of what I experience on a daily basis here. I was thinking about that just a few days ago as I arrived in Barcelona. I do not believe that this is my life. Someone must be playing a trick on me. I find myself actively trying to find the flaws in my experiences while in Spain, and obviously there are none.

On a more real level, one that is much further down than the clouds I live on in Sevilla, I have been struggling internally to justify my being here. While I am aware that no person is perfect or wholly good, I am very far from being even decent most days. I swear too much, I take what I want without worrying about consequence, I drink alcohol, I stay out too late, I stare in the mirror for too long, I manipulate and con and break promises. Most people do these things as well, of course, but maybe because I am biased in the direction of lack of self-confidence, I find it difficult to accept that I deserve each day I have in Spain. 

What have I done that is so spectacular in the world that would land me in a place with palm trees, the brightest blue skies I have ever seen, surrounded by a language that makes me want to dance and sing at its beauty? Whose life did I save, what charity did I volunteer time for, what good deed have I done that has allowed me this magnificent opportunity that most will never see. 

What makes me so great? 

The reason this is a struggle, I think, is because I have been feeling a bit out of balance lately. I have come to realize that nothing about me, my personality, my thoughts, is moderate. I am a very extreme person who doesn't see much middle ground in most aspects. This way of life, while involuntary and unconsciously so, does not exactly leave room for balance and feeling at ease. This is not to say that I am unhappy or that I hope for things to be different. At the same moment in time that I feel a bit too far one way or the other, though, I sometimes wish for something to weigh down the other side for me. 

Now, all this being said, I think I am ready to talk about my trip to Milan. I have waited a few weeks, mostly because I have been very busy, but also because it has taken time, until now, to fully process and understand the transformation that took place while I was gone for that weekend. This weekend in Milan was that weight on the other side of the scale for me. It has showed me the balance I have been seeking. 

Let me set the stage: 

I am constantly on the website skyscanner.com, looking for cheap flights to and from different places around Europe. A few weeks ago, something (possibly Intuition or Inspiration) told me I should find somewhere to go the following weekend. I did not have a particular destination in mind, and it really didn't matter much what day I left/returned home. I had been browsing, typing "Spain- All Airports" for my departure, and then leaving the arrival location blank. I found this to be a very easy way to find any flight leaving from anywhere in Spain, and of course I ordered the search results by price. Granted, my original plan was to go to Marseilles, France. I had thought it over, talked to Becky about it, racked my brain about whether I should go or not, and by the time I had made up my mind, the price of the flights had doubled. That's when I found Milan. There wasn't much thought, I didn't make any lists or do any research about Milan, but I bought my flight. Just like that I clicked the "Purchase Now" button and it was done. 

Oh, did I mention I was going completely alone?

It didn't really appear to be a major issue for me to be traveling alone. In fact, I was rather excited to finally do something actually and completely on my own. I did not have an organized group meeting me in Italy upon my arrival. I would be doing this without any one's help or guidance or permission or support, even. 

It wasn't until the plane landed in the snowy, gray-skied Milan that I was aware of what I was getting myself into. And even then, it took until after eating, settling into my hostel, and talking to my brother online for the first time since I had left the States to fully realize my alone-ness. 

That first day in Milan was a rather sad one, to be completely honest. I was exhausted after a full day of travel. I was on a very tight budget, so I was starving as well and the cookies I bought weren't particularly satisfying. All of this, in combination with the gross weather and the snow I had been hoping to not see again after I left it in Michigan, weighed on me very heavily. It also didn't help the situation that I was the only person in a 12 person bedroom at the hostel. I was honestly alone. In a country I know nothing about. Without even the slightest knowledge of the language. With no one that I know within hundreds of miles. 

So, instead of going out and exploring that first day in Milan, I sat on my tiny bottom bunk and cried. I cried a very sad cry of pure loneliness. I cried because I felt as though I had wasted my money coming there. That it was a huge mistake deciding to go. Why did I succumb to the pressures of rash decisions for something as big as this? I felt embarrassed for coming. Then I felt ashamed at my embarrassment of something so stupid as "mistakenly" coming to a different country. I should have been appreciative, I should have been happy- not crying alone in an empty hostel with the lights off and the door closed. 

It would have taken a lot of effort to pull myself out of that sadness I felt that day, so I just didn't. I allowed myself to be weak, which is something I try never to do. I have heard that being happy compared to being sad is like practicing for a sport or strengthening a muscle. It takes work, it is not easy sometimes. I must practice over and over choosing to be happy, even when I don't want to be. Even when being sad or upset is easier at the time. But that cold, snowy day in Milan was my exception to the rule. I literally cried until I fell asleep. I woke up and came out of my sleep in a haze every now and then, but I still let myself sleep all through the night. I did not get up until the front desk guy cam barging into my room at 11 o'clock the next day saying I needed to get out so housekeeping could clean. 

There was something about being forced awake, that I wasn't even allowed a choice, that helped finally pull me from my dark place. I'm not even sure if I brushed my teeth that morning (gross, I know). I just threw on whatever clothes I had near the top of my bag, and set off to explore the city. 

While the days I was there sort of blend together, I recall the very distinct points that have allowed me to appreciate the time I had in Milan. 

I got very familiar with the public transportation system of Milan. And yet I walked. A lot. 

I took corny touristy pictures and I went to the touristy spots. 

I drank A LOT of cappuccinos, ate Pizza, spaghetti, a panini. 

Every place I walked into, I was greeted with a pleasant, "Ciao, Bella". 

I was starting to perk up, unlike the weather. But I stopped noticing the gray skies. I stopped feeling the rain/snow. That day around the city was the beginning of my morphing thing. My transformation. 

I still felt very lonely that day. But it was a different kind of feeling than the day before, which was only sad and pitiful. 

That day I felt lonely but only when I would realize I was on my own. For instance, walking on the roof of the Duomo. I could see the entire city and more from up there. It was magnificent. It was then, when the city was so big and I was only one, single person around, that I was aware of being by myself. It was then, up there, looking down at this amazing city, that I wished I had someone there with me to share the experience with. It was different than the sadness from the day before, because then I only wanted someone there to take away the lonely feeling. That day though, I wanted someone there so I could share it and not be selfish with the brilliant world I was able to see. 

This thought of wanting someone there with me of course allowed other memories to resurface; memories I am constantly pushing out and away butted into my mind. But up there, on the top of this brilliant cathedral, in the middle of Milan, during Fashion Week incidentally, in Italy, I again let myself feel weak. This time in a different way, but still weak, nonetheless. I did not push away thoughts and flashbacks as they came this time. I did not avoid letting my mind wander and weave in and out of happy times with people who are no longer in my life. I reconnected pangs of sadness with their proper origins, and I even let a few tears fall onto the roof that day, simply from remembering bits of my life I had ignored for so long.

The next morning, after a long night out at a famous club called "Tunnel" that I went to with some French guys from the hostel, I ate breakfast at a cute cafe right down the road. While I nibbled on my nutella toast and sipped my cappuccino, I realized something. (Again, I'm also aware that I have a lot of grand realizations)

I am here in Milan for a reason. Yes, I came here on a whim, had no idea what I was doing or where I would go once I got there, and I am still trying to figure out how I'm going to afford that trip. I came here, to a huge city with graffiti on every building, with gray skies, a disgusting mixture of rain and snow, and confusing roads, and no palm trees in sight. I came to the opposite of Sevilla. 

Like I said before, living in Sevilla is like a dream. I think I needed something to prove to myself that this isn't, in fact, a dream that I am living. This really is my life. I needed the cold wind to literally whip me into the awareness that I am alive. I can feel. I can touch. I can smell and taste. I think I needed a wild night with drunk French men and I needed to spend an entire day in a scary-looking cathedral and walk by stores I could never, EVER afford. I needed to feel real, raw, undisturbed emotion. I needed the ugliness and something that is not beautiful in itself. 

Sevilla is really a magical city. Everything is gorgeous. It is an escape from ugly and disturbing things of the world, of life. The Milan that I experienced was nothing like that. Take the cathedral of the city, the Duomo. When you first look at it, it is kind of gruesome. It is scary and menacing. It's like someone took their nails and scratched a hole in the sky, and it ripped it in a very uneven and hellish kind of way. By no means would I describe that building as being aesthetically pleasing. But up close, as you approach it, as you zoom in, the appreciation for the building is completely given to the insanely and intense detail in every single inch of the cathedral. I spent a big chunk of my time in Milan in the Duomo. I again allowed myself to walk slowly, to appreciate, to question, to wonder.

I lit an offering candle and I watched it burn. I followed the slow path of the wax as it lingered down. 

I think I needed those few days away from Sevilla so that I could miss it. So I could realize how amazing it truly is. I needed a moment to step down from the sky and the stars and be on Earth, if only just for a moment, to remember what it felt like to walk on my feet and to smell the dirty air. 

My last day in Milan was the most brilliant day. I discovered the Fashion Week happenings. I stood in line for far too long. I met a Dutch girl, three Italian teenagers, an amazing girl from California. We got our makeup done professionally. I met an Italian celebrity, Carla Gozzi. I spun on a bull's balls for good luck. I toured the royal palace, and wandered through about 10 museums with the girl from Cali. I ended my day with a giant plate of spaghetti carbonera and a macchiato latte. 

Everything about Milan was a gradual process, but by the end of the third day, I was completely satisfied and I had convinced myself that this was not actually a mistake to go there. 

My time in the city was interesting, and I did spend wayyyy too much money- the amount of which I will take to my grave. I wrote it on the back of a receipt at a cafe there, and I left it with my empty glass. 

Milan showed me a lot about myself, about not having to control every aspect of every bit of life. I was able to let go of control of even my emotions and of my thoughts. 

I would not have been able to do these things and experience what I did there if I had brought a travel buddy along with me. 

Although I still would have loved to have someone there with me, I'm also secretly glad I didn't. I am such a strong person, and I know that because of this trip. I know that because Milan told me so. 

See what I mean- It's a bit intimidating from the outside. 

Almost to the very top of the roof.

I uncomfortably asked a French man to take my picture

They Don't have Nights Like this in the Guidebooks

The night was nothing short of beautiful. It was the epitome of gorgeous.
We all had drinks in our hands and good conversation in three or four or five different languages was buzzing about, vibrating against the walls. The cigarette smoke smelled sweeter that night, less pungent. It gave the room just the fuzziness it needed to create the perfect ambience that matched the cloudiness in our heads.
It was loud; we threw popcorn, we spilled beer, we mixed wine and Coca-Cola, we laughed the loudest laughs in the world.
One of the Italians put on a song.
The rowdiness faded, we stared at the screen awaiting the lyrics. The walls that separated our languages crumbled. We all knew the words- sort of.
We all swayed together, sang together, felt the same love in the room. Together.
I really did feel infinite in the sweet moments I glanced around the circle of international friends I had surrounded myself with.
The Polish couple awkwardly and slowly attempted the lyrics.
The most beautiful Italian girls in the world smiled and sang with the most wonderful smiles and brilliant voices.
A Belgian guy had a cigarette sticking out of each ear and one hung from his mouth- he was laughing too hard to manage the words.
An Italian with the most glorious voice in the world sang truly from his heart.
A Welsh guy held my hand tightly.
Nothing in the world mattered or moved, I'm sure. Nothing could take that stupid smile off my face. Nothing could take away the feeling in my gut that pulsated and screamed with happiness. Nothing was better than that particular song, with those particular words, and with those particular people, in that house, at this time in my life.

And all the roads that lead you there are winding
And all the lights that light the way are blinding
There are many things that I 
Would like to say to you
 but I don't know how

Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all, you're my Wonderwall

I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all, you're my Wonderwall

I don't care if I die tomorrow, or in five minutes- I will die happy, and that's all that matters I think.