The past few weeks I have been incredibly busy with uni assignments and my new job. It‘s all been going great, but as always there‘s just not enough time – this has absolutely nothing to do with my baking cakes instead of studying *cough* (butitwassodelicious!) and reading supernatural romance novels (I think the genre speaks for itself, really). *cough*
Today was the longest day of the week in every aspect. It started at 9 am and ended at 6 pm, I had to switch between universities at lunch time, eating my sandwich on the train from Fribourg to Bern, then spent my one hour break doing some homework. That, and my bycicle broke just when the rain and the sleet started pouring, so my lunch break was shortened by a visit to the mechanic‘s and the walk to uni. I came home wet all over and poured myself a cup of tea, and I realised that I would really like to write about tea tonight.
Isn‘t it funny how something so small can make us see everything in perspective. How wrapping our hands around a hot mug can make us feel safe when just hours before we were feeling stressed and maybe a little bit lost, a little bit squished between the expectations of others. And isn‘t it strange that tea doesn‘t make things better at all but it makes it all bearable. And I see the little rings left on the cover of a favourite book, much like a long gone kiss, and I remember a thought, maybe that the clouds were moving very fast that day or maybe that my favourite hoodie was still in the wash, and that‘s a good thing to think about, because as long as I can worry about my hoodie and clouds, life can not weigh that heavily on my shoulders. And isn‘t it wonderful to think that it‘s something so ordinary that can make us feel settled and mend our broken heart strings?
On saturday I sat with Anna and Valentina in a darkend bedroom on the carpet, and we ate chocolate cake out of the tin. And I felt so whole. Eating cake out of a tin with a spoon is like drinking tea. It also feels a bit forbidden, it feels like the child in you is very very happy. I think that‘s what we call giddy.
I don’t think he knows about second breakfast!
There‘s something about your old bedroom, the one you grew up in. The bedroom where you can hide under the covers to be safe from the monsters underneath your bed and where you can lie on the floor and listen to that old song over and over again, that little kingdom whose door you can slam when things don‘t go your way, where everything is yours and everything is you, the books and the CDs and the teddy bear that you hold tight at night when you‘re feeling sad or happy or both. That‘s what I feel sometimes when I change into that hoodie they only had in XXL, even though I‘m an S, with the bear ears and the bow, and when I hold that steaming mug and look down on an empty paper that is waiting to be filled with a brilliant essay on Renaissance Florence. I think we sometimes underestimate just how good it is to be warm. Nothing more.
Lots of love!
P.S. Listen to La Pluie by ZAZ!