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Well, what would you expect for a first post? There has to be some kind of ceremonial, right?
Ok. Wrong. But I like it that way. Besides, it takes the awkwardness out of going through the whole “Hi. My name’s Silvia, I was born in SA, raised in France, bla bla bla” thing like it’s 1998 and we’re back in high school. Although, technically, I was entering “college” (the French one, not the American one!), so… Junior High? Whatever. Besides, I had to go through the whole speech still last year, so I guess we’re never really over presenting ourselves, are we?
What a way to start off. And there I was, getting ready to start a light-hearted blog, full of the usual craziness and BS that tags along when you go through life, however you may go through it. We all have our moments. For some of us, those moments are just a little longer than for others. Mother Nature is a bitch. Sometimes.
Enough, enough you say! Convoluted peregrinations may not be your thing, in which case I’d kindly advise you to go up to your browser and type the address of your favorite web page, then press enter, in order to get away as fast as you can from this blog, which shall be nothing but the convoluted peregrinations of a very sick mind. Mine.
Very sick indeed, come to think of it. Reading over other people’s/friends’ blogs today, I kept on getting these pop-up images (in the mind they are no less annoying than online) of stories that I wanted to remember, and write about. Whether fun, silly, downright stupid or even sad, never forgetting odd and completely, entirely, totally crazy, I want to remember things. I don’t want to arrive at 70 (if I make it that far!) and think that nothing ever happened to me, just because I forgot about it, didn’t write about it, didn’t commemorate it.
Some people go through life miserable, unhappy because they think they are alone and misunderstood. Forgetting those moments of happiness and shared joy that they have known. We are ALL alone. We are ALL islands. No man is an island? Sure we are! We’re just the mobile kind, you know, with paddles and shit.
Oh, yes, I did say “shit”. I swear at times. A lot when I’m angry, it just sounds so soothing in a way. A verbal vent to avoid a more physical one, for some. For me? I just like the sound of my voice.
No, not really. Well, actually, yes. I do. But only when *I* hear it. With my inner ear and whatnot. I don’t like hearing it registered. For some reason, especially not in Italian. And this writing exercise is difficult for me at the moment, I’m thinking at 350km/h, and in various languages at once. I think of “sfogo”, and “pagaie”, and “peregrinazioni” and… Durban Indian market? No, wait, that’s another story altogether.
This year I’ve spent in Italy has taught me many things, and in the past few weeks/months, new (and old) friends have helped me learn even more. Learn more or this language that is one of my own, but that I have never really had the chance to master: Italian. Grazie a voi tre. Se mai leggete questo, spero vi riconoscerete. Senno, siete LSF (I wish that made up LSD, but hey, I can’t forget F!!).
This first entry is already too long. And already you can see the kind of internal chaos that reigns above the apparent order-freak that I am. If you’ve seen my room, you know what I mean.
