Category: JOURNAL

Throw me a Bone

JOURNAL March 30, 2018

A song I play quite often goes like this

” Throw me a bone,

Don’t be scared of what you don’t already know “

And I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it,

at first sight, it sounds like something trivial.

Over time and with all that’s come through in between,


this doozy started to make a real nice sense.

And the sense it started to make has a pinch of melancholy within,

especially to someone like me –

who weighs words and commas and all the smallest details.

I’ve dreamt about this faraway land.

pictured it in the tiniest of details,

from the disposition of plants in the house

to how long it’d take me to get to the beach.

Stupid little things, you may think,

My happy places, I dream.

But for some reason, I don’t seem to grasp, that I don’t seem to baptize.

Here I am, still picturing it in its details,

this far away land,

repeating myself to sleep that maybe there’s no need to fly to the other side of this world to find myself at home,

to find my way to the balance I crave.

That it’s not the view from my window or the shades of the sand under my bare feet that’ll make me happier.

That what I need is already within me.

Some fucking where, flooded under these piles of freedom thoughts

and idealizations.

And so I distract myself with simple things

like weekend getaways,

restaurant dinners on Fridays

and subtle vices

– to swab this thirst of mine I don’t find the guts to shush

nor to water.

But then I think to myself that damn yes,

the view from my window and the smell of the ocean and the way to the beach and the shades of the sky, they all make a hell of a difference,

especially to someone like me who doesn’t want to give up wondering,

not even when the alarm goes off,

not even now I see I’m making some hell good paintings of these faraway dreamlands.







36 hours in Rome with Ma’


The first day of Spring is my mother’s birthday.


I’m no good at birthday gifts

– she must have a pile of pattern socks and teas in metallic boxes by now.



So I bought two train tickets.


We woke up at 4.30am

and with no clues, she followed me to the station when it still was night outside. She found out few minutes before the departure I was taking her to Rome.



Time to leave our bag to the apartment in the centre (Maison Romana)

and we left wandering around its cobbled streets.

We’d only stop when the stomach complained or when our feet were hurting or when the view got too pretty.


And what we realized is that you don’t need the whole world in your pocket

to find yourself happy.



Sometimes, a sunrise and two days of long walks and a plate of pasta and mugs of coffee and the sun warming your bones can turn into the softest birthday gift.


And it’s nice to wet your lips with wine after cheering to yourself, to early mornings on a train, to Rome and to things to come.



Whatever works.

As simple as that.












































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  • Maison Romana, apartment
  • Pasticceria Regoli, breakfast
  • Trastevere, afternoon stroll
  • Papa Re, lunch // carciofi alla romana + puntarelle

Hard edges and Bad coffee but with laughter


I should be leaving the city in a handful of minutes

– fractions of the life I’ve tried on for a few days.


I’m at the bar down the road,

keeping my fingers crossed to meet some of those people you only meet in your travels,

bare enough to tone down the tangles messing around with my sleep,

good enough to smooth these hard edges of mine.


Keeping my fingers crossed to finally find a place to make home

– even if just for a handful of months,

even if just for a slice of time.



But I sit here,

playing darts with my days trying to hit the mark,

ignoring this bad sight of mine and my perpetual fear of not being enough,

of making a false step,


hoping to hit that fucking mark.



There are two bartenders making my coffee on a random early spring day

and I almost asked them if maybe,

by any chance,

they needed another pair of spare hands to dry all those chipped ceramic plates.

If maybe,

by any chance,

they were looking for another laughter to join theirs when dropping things

behind the counter, not taking things too seriously.


Because I came to realize that the infinite thirst I’ve been trying to swab for all this time with clothes I don’t have the occasions to wear and black ink,

kicking in my sleep and begging me to listen,

was nothing but a cry for lightheartedness,

fresh air

and coffees from whichever bar down the road of an ordinary city.



Lightness isn’t superficiality,

it is daring to be yourself,

trying lives on until you find the one that fits snugly.


I’m surely no expert when it comes to matters of the heart,

nor am I fortune-teller interpreting stars and signs,

but I’ve learnt that  the best gift you can give yourself is to let go of

the buoy of taking yourself too seriously

and get lost.


And when the soles of your shoes are paper-thin

and you run out of breath,

sit on a bench,

enjoy the view

and then go back to getting lost until you stumble on what you’ve been looking for.

And call it by its name

– little does it matter if we’re talking about heart,


or god.



And what you may find is a bar down the road of whichever ordinary city,

where the coffee may be bad

– but it’s served by people with a smile drawn on their cheeks who laugh when they stumble behind the counter.


A tiny memo saying that it’s okay if you stumble,

that it’s fine to not be too hard on yourself.




A hot coffee, two bartenders behind the counter and all that’s within.

As simple as that.





















































The first day of Spring


I took a plane to Berlin, to breathe for a while.

Not that I have a lot to complain about – life flowing smoothly between

home-made dinners and ideas to put together in a life I get to choose.



But for some reason,

in this impeccable shoving of days like pearls in a thread,

I can’t seem to find balance and all those other phrasings to stay afloat.


So I get on trains and spend long nights in Nordic hostels of bunk beds and cheap drinks.

I look for what I want to hear in the words of those I happen to find along the way,

those things I don’t find the courage to trust – eternal promises I make with myself to plunge right into what I want and do it for real, this time.


Because this life I get to choose is waiting for me right there

on the seabed I don’t know the shape of,

under those layers of blue I keep having second thoughts about.

And I kick

and I shake

and I wiggle on this surface that now feels so tight.


And I wish I could just take a deep breath and row with who it is that I am and see what colour the seabed I dream about really is.

But for some reason, I hold tight to all trivial excuses and lighthearted talks,

stupid water wings I insist to wear not to go deep.



And I’m now drinking mint tea in an ordinary city,

yet another shot to find a place to call home, a space to fit in

– knowing for sure that all I want is to disappear in a line of bubbles flowing above my head, see the water get blue, black, and down, down a bit more,

touch the ocean floor

and grab a handful of sand.

And in that place so far from all ideas I’d ever painted in my mind until then

– in the furthest corner from what I’d ever known –

find home.



So here I find myself,

with miles under the soles of my shoes,

with the sketch of a butterfly given to me as a gift on the first day of spring.

Reminding me that spending too long anchored to the ground, you forget how to breathe.













































Full breath, Dive deep

JOURNAL March 20, 2018

I find myself in this paradox of a day, between these canals

the sun making my eyes look ajar,

like sullenly,


drinking hot tea

and biting a good attempt of pastel de nata

the wind tangling my hair


on an early weekday.


And just like this,

I find myself with my legs crossed under a table too tiny for my uncoordinated manners

and I don’t have a clear picture

nor a draft of the path to go,

no sign suggesting whether to turn right or keep stumbling on those familiar errors

that my head doesn’t seem to let go.


I don’t have a clue about where I’ll be

or how I’ll fill those hours between goodnight kisses and a quiet breakfast before the house awakes.

I’m sure I wouldn’t be doing things any other way,

not following the tricks given by who knows me by heart,

but following stars calculated to spans

and approximate sums of the shades of coffee in the mug

or of wine on the lips.



It’s time to take a full breath

and dive deep.


I’ve got a swimsuit under my jeans.














































This is not an apology letter

JOURNAL March 15, 2018

For the past few months, I’ve tried to ghost away from my past routines

– quick additions of bad habits and the circularity of things I let happen. I broke patterns and slipped out of the uncomfortable suit I’ve been wearing for far too long

to please anyone else but me.


And I’ve travelled to colder countries to get the chill in my bones and feel myself again,

I’ve cut and run from all distractions, superficial anecdotes and unnecessary frills. I’ve turned down my daily low-income internship and with it the sense of purpose I’d swallow every morning with my coffee. I decided to take a leap and commit full-time to an ever-changing plan that jams in my head and changes shape according to the weather, the horoscope or the vibes of the day.

I’ve indulged in all things I craved at that right moment – little does it matter if we’re talking making out with someone for the sake of it, buying a new pair of sweatpants to make the lazy days look nicer or cutting the hair I’d been growing for years. I moved back home and then headed to the Netherlands to take one last breath of dizzy air, sip juice on the canals and have a bite of familiarity before making my next big move.


Because it’s important to be done with a chapter before starting a new one. I’ve tried shortcuts and improvised ways to get away with this ugly truth, but the only way out the messed up stuff heavy on your chest is to get rid of its tangles you’ve been ignoring, brushing them away from the roots  before they get too heavy.


Only then you can start over, lighter.


And what I came to realise is that these aching bones, lazy ass and thirsty eyes of mine are the only things I can always hold tight to when all things feel like they’re slipping from my fingers. At the end of the day, the only person I’m sharing the bed with is myself. And I might not have the tightest body or the wittiest mouth, but since we’re here I might as well make a hell good hookup out of it.


I’m sorry for everyone who found me at this weird moment where everything is still possible and I don’t seem to know how to take one step at the time. Sorry for whoever goes to dinner with me and has to wait for me to spend 25 mins reading the menu and then ordering the same pizza I’ve had since I was 10, for those who put up with me at the supermarket where I was supposed to buy a smoothie and got out with a bottle of wine and for those who are still trying to paraphrase my late night texts. And I’m even more sorry for those who haven’t found me yet and are about to get all tangled up in my perpetual indecision and attempts at adulting.

But the ones I’m most sorry for are the ones who’d rather sit on their asses and say sorry when they’re right and ask for permission before taking a coffee break, stuck in a life they didn’t dream about.


This is not an apology letter to my parents who see me leave every other month, for my friends whose birthdays I forget or acquaintances I haven’t seen in years. This is not a post-it to remind me to run more, drink less and stop falling for all the wrong guys. This is just some stupid late night mind doodle to remind myself of how far I’ve come and how long the way is. It’s going to be a hella ride but I’m sure it’ll be a fun one.


So here I find myself

yet another late night playing rock, paper, scissors to decide where to head next.

There’s some sort of pleasure in trusting the discomfort of not having a clue about what’s coming up next and just going at it.

Full speed.



If you can’t always do what you fancy,

why not at least pick a nice place to do it from ?















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JOURNAL October 24, 2017

I often find myself asking questionable things like whether i should find a way to get closer to what I want or stare at my goldfish wondering what he thinks about all day, if the world is all good and we’re just complications and if avocados truly are that nice.

After a month of treating myself with the idea i’m not that much of a walking mess, that I can just lay in bed for a while longer and go to aperitifs and dating people met in bars, well, I realized a simpler way of life is not for me. and for however much i sometimes cross my fingers to forget about those ideas that keep me awake at night, I decided to tear down the wall I patiently built around the messy, fuck-up that I am. and breathed.

Because there’s nothing more liberating than allowing yourself to be you and not worry about pleasing everyone crossing your eyes,


or mind.


After years of piling up experience in all things photogenic on my resume, afraid of making my big move – but still pushing away all things people look for like someone to go back home to and numbers to call and ask if it’s socially acceptable to still make out in a club and blame it on the alcohol -, I decided to open the drawer where I’ve silently been watering the idea of getting out there and give it a shot.

So i’m planning a journey in another corner of the world.

Not sure if it’s the right thing to do, but if I keep coming back to that thought after so long, an idea begging and bugging me to listen to it, then I guess that’s the sign I’ve been asking all gods and fortune cookies and horoscopes for.

Because there’s nothing like the right moment or the perfect circumstance.

It’s more of what you decide to do with your days, dusting off those ideas you’ve tried to keep outside your chest and listen to your guts.

because it’s not your thoughts that are too tangled, you simply haven’t found the right comb yet.

So here’s the start of a journal, on the hidden beauty of simple things, getting lost and improvising life.

From scratch, a white canvas.  


And i’ve never been this happy.







JOURNAL September 11, 2017

There are many things in life i still have to figure out,  

like how to live on something more balanced than hummus and vino,

the opening hours of the supermarket and how to manage money without spending it all on shoes, smoothies and frilled t-shirts.


It’s like having a tangle made of a bunch of other tangles and the more you try to figure out from which one to start

the more you look clueless and decide to leave it there and keep your fingers crossed

it’ll solve its enigma by itself.

That’s pretty much how I approach life and its myriad of questions.

Or i google them until I find some ridiculously long explanatory article and get distracted after a handful of seconds by all irrelevant things like how to cook 3-ingredient pancakes or how to find your soulmate in the snacks aisle.  


And it takes quite a few hours of my week to try and figure this ever growing list of

‘things people my age start to get together and rearrange in bullet points’ out.

But at the same time I realize how little this cleaning up mind space suits me.

I’d feel completely out of place, like when I try to put some makeup.

Nobody knows where the hell you’re supposed to put all those palette colored things anyway.


And it gives me that sense of contentment to know that I’m not the only one not painting my nails or curling eyelashes,

like when I get on the balance in the morning before breakfast

tricking my brain into thinking i’m fit. and it’s all a matter of psychology, you are what you think of yourself.





To come to a compromise with grown-up responsibilities and do something about my absent mindedness, I took one of those personality tests that take an hour of ticking boxes and skim-reading questions that are too articulated for me.


Turns out I’m an impatient, easily-bored and impulsive human being.

And according to the results I should work on my incapability of being consistent with what makes my eyes spark for the moment, I should turn my stubbornness into my drive to finish at least one of the ideas I have when half-asleep and write down in confused notes.

I like to call myself creative and like all creatives I use it as some rubbish excuse to go on dealing with my messy bedroom, my ugly calligraphy

and terrible relationship with timing,

living on extremes like buying four pairs of the same trainers because comfortable or eating a whole party-sized bag of peanuts just because.

But I don’t mind dedicating all my effort or none at all to what surrounds me. It shakes my days up.


Like bike rides through the canals on a late night, sipping whiskey to cure a cold and going to birthday parties of strangers.


The only thing I figured out taking that test is that you can’t expect a computer to solve the tangle that your personality is.

The results slap you in the face with the truths you hide behind smiley emoticons and lipstick and other things from the makeup vocabulary – sorry I ran out of girly terminology.


Nobody needs to be reminded of his flaws,

especially if he embraces them like I do.


It’’ll all work out.






JOURNAL August 22, 2017

I read in an article that if you really want to be a global citizen or any of that other millennial bullshit, it’s not enough to fill a backpack with cotton t-shirts, extra underwear and adventure all those photogenic places just to check them out of the cool-corners bucket list and spit some adventure travel stories once you’re back home with those people who are still living under their parents’ roof.

That’s too easy, and smooth things never made good stories.

I’m not sure if it’s because of the fresh air,

for my tired legs

or the lack of sleep.

Nor i’m sure if this whole idea i like to mold in my head of getting free from what keeps me anchored in a place is what keeps me moving or what makes me question all things I thought clear.

But if there’s something I’m pretty sure of is that

there’s nothing more terrifying than forgetting how good it feels to get in the car and wander until the landscape is well lit,

grab a bottle of wine and let the flow of things wash away all heavy thoughts on your chest.

That’s what I did.

When days started to look alike, flavor of the month turning into flavor of the season, and all weeks being already written down by someone else,

I got on the ferry and got lost in unpaved streets and unknown faces.

And what i found was nothing but familiarity.








So go ahead,

close your eyes, pick a country and move there.

Go through the struggle of applying for a visa, surf web pages looking for a place to call home for a while, spend the first weeks going to bars and keep your fingers crossed people will make conversation with you.

Get out there and experience what it really feels like to be the new kid in the place,

learn a different language,

get used to flavours that aren’t familiar and explore the world.

And i’m not talking about renting villas in South-East Asia and taking photos of smoothie bowls (and I’m a big fan of smoothie bowls).

Challenge yourself.

You’ll be surprised how good you can be at life starting from scratch.

You just have to give it a shot.

Because you won’t remember those days spent with your ass glued to an uncomfortable chair, those small talks in the elevator or the grocery list you haven’t changed in weeks.

What you’ll remember are late nights betting with life,

unplanned trips, short night sleeps

and random combinations of time, words and coincidence.



What I’m saying is that it’s not boring to settle, to turn a house into a home and follow a balanced diet of daily rituals and people.

Just don’t forget how nice it is to listen to what your guts whisper,

no matter if people around you will nod at that or turn that into the topic of the week at their aperitifs.

And if it doesn’t work out,

if the country doesn’t suit your taste in people, if the morning sky is too gray or if who you share your nights with doesn’t fit your dreams,

then pack your things and start again.

Nobody ever regretted experimenting with life.

It’s liberating knowing that it’s okay to go wrong.


Just don’t forget to play.


JOURNAL July 23, 2017

There are those raw days when you feel something’s missing,


and you look for it, desperately searching for something you wouldn’t recognise the shape of, the colour or the smell.

So you jump from an addiction to the next, trying to fill this void of feels,

resolving it with the conclusion that it’s not the moment yet,

that it’s a matter of perfect timing,

good combination of ingredients

and a pinch of letting your days in the hands of this something that is puppeteering the world, like the recipe for a pie.


And in those raw days, when everything starts to crash, hold tight to this thought –

you’re here, now.


And it’s not the places you’ve been,

the people you shared the sheets with or the times you let your eyes drown in salt that make you, you.


What matters is if you’re ready to let yourself try,

and sometimes it’s good to let some homework in the hands of fate.










And it’s probable that you’ll have to go wrong,

collect scratches and learn how to deal with voices you don’t like,

houses you can’t make home and the rain.

And it’s probable that you’ll have to learn a new language, make do with the food and fly for miles.


But there will come the time that all this experimentation of different lives every handful of months, moving furniture and packing your life in a backpack to carry on your shoulders, living out of the basics and not forgetting to keep it light,

well, that’ll all make sense.


And you may not have a balanced diet,

the safety of an income or a quiet bedroom to go back to at the end of the day

Stop finding excuses, trying to fix people’s lives to keep your mind distracted from your big plans, greedy to save who doesn’t want to be rescued or leaving room for your insecurities to take over and make you doubt about all small things.


If you don’t allow yourself the freedom to go wrong and letting people in and out of your days,

you’ll miss all the fun of this hell of a ride.



So here’s to changing currents,

things come to an end and new beginnings.

So get out there, play your cards and turn your life into poetry.


All good things take time.