7 things Sunday – Flying Books

When I originally started this blog, I thought of it as the place where I could basically form a bookclub with myself. I was and still am deeply fascinated with how a blog works, at least in perspective , and how various communication can be. How easily I could try to talk to people from places I’ve never heard of. Poetic stuff like that.

Well, it turns out I’m a lazy person. Not actually refusing to do stuff because of laziness, but rather because I live in my own doomed world of expectations ( too high and too pretty) and I get bored of my own excitement way too fast. Oh, and books and my natural predisposition to a hobbit existence.

Anyway, school started and my need to write and share and feel fine has grown strangely.

Also, when I first came with the idea of writing here, all I basically wanted to express opinions about were books. I got a little bit off trail and decided to go back to book-related stuff because creating reviews and talking about fiction and narrative skills of others and characters and new releases brings me a whole deal of satisfaction.

So I decided to create a little thing to help me keep whoever reads this posted. As in, something constant and periodical and structural.

                                                            7 THINGS SUNDAY

As for this nice September weekend, I’m going to list 7 books related – obviously or vaguely – to flight. 

I. “The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender” by Leslye Walton

Just to be clear, as far as I understood it, this is just subtly related to flight. Or rather, to wings and family histories and a magical realism so beautifully created that it makes me shudder now, weeks after reading it and enjoying it greatly. The writing is beautiful, the wings are something else, the characters have  a depth that is pretty uncommon and a mystery that struck me as otherworldly. Do you get explanations? No. Is there a strange kind of vagueness in the narration , in the way time, symbolism, personalities, beliefs and existential paths collapse into one another? Yes.

This book is a beautifully satisfying metaphor of flight.

Not to mention the stunning and elegant cover.

II. “Magonia” by Maria Dahvana Headley 

I’m currently reading this book – the debut of an author with quite interesting ideas about a world that is floating above our heads.Whereas I’m halfway through, I can say that it was unexpectedly difficult for me to get into this one, the main reason being, probably, that I’m rather judgemental and weirdly critical when it comes to characters and their development, and the way Aza Ray was portrayed, at least at first, struck me as cartoonish.

Once you get past the first 100 pages things evolve greatly, for which I am glad, and a new world develops, a little bit incoherently, but I believe in this dizziness of world building.

I think this is going to transform into a series, but I’m not sure – what I know for a fact is that it involves flying ship and singing that creates and transforms. Which makes me really interested into this.

Another beautiful cover, for me, at least, set somewhere in the same chromatic field, but with quite an exotic feel to it.

III. “The Mistborn Trilogy” by Brandon Sanderson 

You might have noticed it, by now, but I’m going to point it out nonetheless – I am a huge fantasy fan, coming from an YA dystopian period that included various and mostly basic exceptions.

My love for fantasy is infinite and “Mistborn” might quite be one of the best fantasy books I’ve read ( not that I’ve read too many, I’m just deeply interested).

My fundamental advice is to get into this knowing nothing, absolutely nothing – it will make everything a huge deal better –  more consistent and fresher and a breath of magical air in a quite worn world. Really, read this if you haven’t.

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The British variant of the covers, incredibly fair representations of the epicness and complexity

The way flight is configured in here is less metaphorical, but equally freeing for one of the protagonists – I put this series in here because I like how flight becomes something integrally new and different and empowering, how it has a huge role in character development. Absolutely epic.

IV. The “Throne of Glass” Series by Sarah J. Maas

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The American covers, screaming “bad-ass”

You’ve probably heard of this one, taking into account all the hype surrounding it – a hype that is , from my modest point of view, earned. Because I find these books fantastic – yes, there are issues in them, no, they are not perfect, but damn, they intrigued me so majorly and overwhelmingly that I read the first three in 48h last May and prayed and prayed September to come faster, so that I could finally read “Queen of Shadows”. All in all, I am a fan. And the flight element comes in with the third book , after an incredibly special to me characters comes in – I’m talking about both Rowan and Manon here , if you know what I mean. I’m talking about the same empowering flight, about binding through freedom, about shapeshifters and beauty all over. I really like Manon, by the way – I like the relationship between her and her wyvern, Abraxos, I like her humanization( especially in “Queen Of Shadows”), her dedication and her leader abilities. I love her character, I believe it is the main proof that this series is evolving and Sarah’s writing grows more and more mature and beautiful.

V. “ A Daughter of Smoke and Bone” by Laini Taylor download (8)

In a vivid world of angels and chimera , through gates that transform our world in a haven, doors with blackened handprints, in a world where magic comes in hope and wishes and blue-haired girls fall for angels, flying sort of is a must. A connection and a poetic way of finding common things in each other.

This book is beautiful – whereas I had my issues with it and I postponed reaching for the second and the third one for a rather ridiculous amount of time , I can recognize the poetry of language and the rather fuzziness this book gives me.

You should read it if you want a great, intense love story a whole lot less dumber than “Romeo and Juliet”.

VI. “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” -Richard Bach71728

This is a story about being different. Some sort of inspirational thing to keep you going, to give you a sense of who you are and the courage to do something crazy.

I read it 5 years ago, as the first assignment for my Romanian class in middle grade. I’m not sure I loved it, but I , for sure, got something out of it and it stuck with me.

You can always be Jonathan Livingston Seagull and fly away from your fellows.

It has a really nice metaphor for alienation, I really recommend it to people who feel misunderstood and alone.

VII. The “Harry Potter” Series by J.K.Rowling 

Ok, I know you might find this pathetic. Actually, you might find my whole list pathetic and rather weird, BUT I really think that flying is a huge thing at Hogwarts – I mean, just think about it – flying on a broom ( mostly for quidditch reasons), flying on the back of the dragon, flying on thestrals, the flying thing in which the Beauxbatons students came, led by winged horses, Buckbeak the hippogriff, Fawkes and his beautiful abilities.

All sorts of flight and flying things , all mostly related to magic and life/death situations , and all really inspirational for young me.

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Hope you enjoyed this winged idea of mine and you like the 7 stuff Sunday.

Gonna be back next week with a Top 7 Fall Books.


Autumn burns

Today is Friday and I feel like continuously sighing, because Fridays are a quiet and happy thing.

Fridays are getting out of school at 2 pm and heading to the local library and finding nice books.

Friday means my hair curlier than usual, my earbuds dug deeper in my ears and my life messier.

Friday means sighing and listening to people singing about stupid things.

Friday means laughing and laughing and laughing simply because you are tired. Simply because Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday have washed over you in a wave of quiet and disturbing disappointment.

Friday is the day that comes after a Thursday when you couldn’t make a sense of who you were and just stood there quietly, watching people and covering yourself in shut eyes, sealed lips and silence.

And a self-conscious promise that you would, at some point, leave.

Friday is the day when you can forget lunch and just stick with chocolate. Or do both. Nobody cares.

Friday is the day when you’ve run out of avocado but you still have Saturdays for fixing that.

Friday has the afternoon you carefully plan only to end up stuck on the carpet, listening to music – sad music or nonsensical music or random music – or watching useless and not actually funny videos on YouTube or videos about books or videos in which people talk about how much they were able to achieve in such short lives. So much that it makes you dreamy and fundamentally uncomfortable with your lack of great things done.

Fridays for short hair, for printed glasses, for being alone and smelling bitter oak leaves in the air and in the streets.

For missing rain deeply and totally.

Fridays for a day that is deeply fried in the oily concoctions of autumn.

Going away

I want to leave.
I don’t know if you’ve ever felt it, that sparkly thing in your stomach, that little flame of sheer fear and longing. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt it, or if it actually has a name that we can all roll in our mouths without feeling weird.
Some call it “wanderlust”. But I would like that “a” changed for an “o”. Because I crave miracles. And places I’ve never tried to picture.
I’m stuck for now, tho. And I suppose I will be stuck for a little longer.
Last week, I got a message with a link.
A link to the web page of an American project that offers scholarships to students from Eastern Europe. From countries like mine.
Basically, you get to swap the background a little bit and study junior high at a highschool in the US.
Doesn’t it sound great.
Problem is, you have to get through a huge series of tests in order to get there.
And, damn, I am so excited and so freaking sure I want to do it.
I wanna leave. For a while at least.
But I fear that I won’t get past the first series of testing, never mind the rest.
And damn, how horrible I would feel.
I’m maybe leaving for America next August, God knows if I will.
I hope and pray I do.
Cause I can’t survive “here” anymore.
Cause I want to breathe.
And breathe.
And see .



My computer had what I would call a seizure. It’s just opened here, in front of me, black screen with a white arrow capable of moving around, but doing nothing more than that. Just annoying me. Not in the fundamentally annoying way. Just making my life harder than usually.  And also making me write from this app. Such a tiny keybord,  so little space for my mental floss. Such non-existent warning when I’m a master of stupidly spelled words.
I really feel like writing because I really feel like talking, or rather being listened to, and texts about useless things, this hide-and-seek type of dialogues are profoundly dissatisfying. I think I could talk for  hours out of sheer frustration. I could talk for days and days until I’m totally unable to articulate a word, until I’m numb and useless, simply because I love to talk.
Or rather,  I love to be listened to.
No, I don’t like people looking at me, gazing at me, staring at me, getting bored or annoyed listening to my ramblings. Yes, my unhealthily pale skin cam get all shades of red and my breath can become fast and shallow and my hands can become knots and the tips of my feet can sink deep into the ground, until they reach the hot center of my gravitational field. My brain can get weirdly irrational, my tongue irresponsible.  And tho, I will keep speaking . Talking. Telling. I will keep craving the high that the idea of being listened ro gives me. I will keep craving the weight I can feel forming in my stomach while words hurry out of my mouth. Out of my hands. Out of my eyes and lungs.
That is why I felt like writing. I did. Hope I’ll make a habit out of it, because it becomes difficult to breathe  with so many words stuck between my mouth and my brain.

Life is not a sparkly bubble

No, it is not. Life is rather weird and it becomes even weirder and more difficult and complicated and weird and difficult when you have the incredibly destructive habit of overthinking it. Like I do.

Today officially was the third day of school. And against my expectations of failed human communication, I still felt fine around people. Damn it, I am truly exaggerating right now. I just.. I figure I have this interior defensive mechanism that somehow allows me to be ok and feel kind of fine, some sort of thing that makes me stand straighter, speak more coherently, look people in the eye, keep my chin up and my steps and breaths even. Some sort of thing that doesn’t allow me to think too much when feeling like I have something funny to say, that does leave me to being, to laughing too loudly and talking too much, to being proud. The problem is, there usually comes the time after that, when I get home, my feet sore from walking, my hair a mess and my hands stained with ink, when it all comes back to me. All the laughing and the jokes – that seem freaking stupid, all the walking straightly and the attitude that I could have kept for another time. For it is not totally real, but rather something that I could have been, I suppose. The problem is, there comes the time when all that put up confidence returns and feels like salt on burnt skin. Because damn, I’m vulnerable in front of myself. Because the moment I feel fine , something black and shiny and uncomfortable catches my eye and becomes bigger and bigger against the law of physics.

Maybe that’s why I despise school so much. I don’t know, but I’m really frustrated at this particular moment, because I’ve started transforming this into a cliche thing and I really feel like avoiding that.

A smarter affirmation would be, tho, that I’ve noticed that the 21 hours I’ve been in school since Monday have killed all the creativity and replaced it with frustration. And I don’t want to fall in the same pattern of hatred and self sufficiency and lack of self control and desperation and limitations that left me numb and indifferent and then sad. I think I’ve simply decided that the time has come to make the most out of what I have. But , in order to achieve that, I first need some joy and some harmonious days and some good books and cold weather and some silence and a good night’s sleep and harmony with myself again. And I need to work hard and stop wasting my time and work hard a little bit more.

I just hope I can pull it off, this harmonious autumnal life.

Because, you know, life is not a sparkly bubble of soap.

I forgot how school is done

Summer has passed incredibly… not necessarily fast, but rather unexpectedly motionless.

As if my life got frozen on the 19th of June and now, three months and a rather impressive amount of time spent in a bed later, I’m going to return to a place that I don’t find very beautiful – highschool.

It is ugly, even in perspective, that I have to return so soon to a place of relative torment, but it doesn’t make it any less exciting. In perspective.

The fact is , I know that, in 8 hours, I’m going to walk with my chin up straight into the school yard, shrugging when the occasional person tries to say “hi”. I’ll probably seem happy, and I’ll partially be happy. And I’ll smile and think of endless possibilities and feel like a princess, because, in the weirdest way existing, school is probably one of the few places where I feel sort of free. Sort of appreciated and sort of well, at least in theory, because school is the only thing I am good at.

I mean, yeah, I love reading to the moon and back. I love talking to people (sometimes) and I hate the fact that, usually I have nobody to talk to the way I’d like to (the main drama of my life, because, believe it or not, I have such a wonderful life and I;m still here begging for a little attention from myself – or rather trying to talk in a sane way –  monologues about how afraid you are aren’t the best way to assure society that you are perfectly healthy).

Moving on and actually going back to how school is the only thing I know to be good at – don’t judge me too hard, please, just don’t do it, even if I am lame. So lame. But really, I’ll probably spend my miserable life teaching somewhere if the grand plan of escaping this corner of the world fails. God, please, don’t let that happen. Just let me open my arms at full length and fly away from here, the way paper planes do. Please.

Anyway, after months of being a painfully  successful hobbit, I am afraid, deep inside my chest, that I forgot how it all gets done at school. I desperately tried to recall the easiness with which I would walk down the hall and greet teachers and friends alike and I couldn’t. And that scares me – this lack of routine- the fact that I can’t remember, step by step, how things are done, even the small ones, like raising my hand of slightly bowing my head or ordering a cup of latte macchiato at the sort of cafeteria we have in our highschool.

This apparently lost ability to communicate within a society.

God, I’m talking as if I’ve lived with the wolves for the past century. I guess it would have been nice.

All in all, school starts tomorrow and I’m terribly excited. High hopes again, formed against my will , promises of the disappointment that is to come. Not yet, tho, not yet.

I am also excited because of this slight amnesia of mine – the way I forgot all of those little steps I used to trace my life around. Maybe it will turn out better, because I forgot how it’s done and I have to discover it all over again.

Or maybe, just maybe, I fail remarkably at life but have a very good spirit when it comes to overthinking my failuresque way of being.

Hope I’ll keep my promises to myself and write here more often throughout this year.

See you soon.


I reached my 50th summer book.

All quite large, some impressive, some stupidly and incredibly bad.

Mostly average, just like the person who got into reading them with such passion.

School starts next week and I am not even sad or revolted- which is weird, weird, oh so weird.

I’ve been away these past two weeks – travelling a teeny-tiny bit in my almost nice country. I saw some mountains, wandered in some woods , touched the sea, breathed polluted air. Met some beautiful people, been scared by others, failed remarkably and cried a little bit too much for I am so so so weak. Incredibly weak.

I am home again, now. And I am tired and hollow and literally expressing my feelings like some hormonal teen girl on tumblr. Oh wait. I am a freaking teenager. Proceed with caution.

Oh, wait another second, my jokes are bad and my life is sad. Or.. maybe not.

God, I am totally ungrateful for my chances. I should be. Different.


I felt like writing because I like talking and I have nobody to talk to or nobody to get me or nobody that refuses to blame me for things.

You see, I really function like a failure.

But that is quite fine, I suppose.

Unless you are a lonely and quite impossible to understand failuresque person, like myself.

I’m going to stop now, for my coherence is gone.

I don’t know where.

P.S. My country is beautiful, you should come around sometimes.

P.P.S. Problem is.. it is in my head, but you probably can enter it through my ear, even if I don’t have nice ears, I am not an elf.

P.P.P.S. I’ve just had a revelation. I think van Gogh cut his ear to let people in his nice country. People refused and thought he was mad. He probably died believing it as well.