Scribbling ūüĆĽ

It has been about a year since I first started this blog. It was meant to contain my commitment and my reviews, my hope and my writing, a very wonderful version of my reading life and, frankly, it has been designed as a way to escaped my loneliness at the times. God dammit, loneliness. Looking back on those first posts, I am somewhere between snorting, daying of laughter and crying wkth nostalgia. Because, humanity, as cliche as I sound, I have changed so much it is both astonishing and cruel.

I have also noticed that I cannot live without writing. I am fragmented, with no idea of my genuine identity ( if that is a real thing, not an urban myth ) and I need to scribble and scribble.

I also take photos now, with my smartphone, whenever I leave the house. Celebratory picture of sunflowers, three weeks in a row.

I still feel lonely sometimes, you see, but I am fighting it. Not loneliness per se, but the feelings that used to come with it. I am still scared of scaring people away, of being to expansive, too big too loud too messy, of bothering them to death. But I am learning.

And I am going to scribble my knowledge around here. Again.

With sunflowers, your dearest 16 year old writer,


P.S. in need of a chatartic experience, I cut my hair. More like chopped it off. I am adjusting with that, too.



Multiple of 26

I want to fly away from what I have become. So I am gonna write myself down here and leave myself , forget these cold days deep in my pocket.
T for a nose and
O for a brain.
An E for a forever twisted mouth and
S for my two eyes.
Two Ss actually, because I wear glasses.
I & J for my legs, because I am always nervous so I keep one of my legs twisted at a weird angle.
M for my right hand and
N for my left one.
My teeth.
My teeth that blush and explode with guilt.
I can find no proper letter for my hair, because it is curly and expands like a flower. Like me, when I cry. Like my fist, when I shiver. Like my memory, when I refuse to remember. Like my fear, when I don’t.
Maybe Qs and Ws and Ys and Zs could sort of explain my hair, though. They are the least used letters where I come from. Because people don’t know how to put them in words. Because my hair can’t be braided, but my bones can.
X for my heart.
V for my lungs.
B for my ears, when I hear too much. Grass growing and snow falling and the darkness humming around me.

2016 manifesto in my own manner

I don’t know ( I probably can find out, but, to be honest, I don’t think I WANT to know ) if anybody reads my blog regularly. This blog. If anybody cares about the rambling I do here. I don’t think so, as nobody from my real life actually creeps around this place. The fact is, you can figure out, even if you are new around and you’ve never read anything of what I’ve written before, that I am really honest . I don’t know how much¬† honesty I keep in my pocket in real life, but when I write here, under a fake name and with no responsibility , I do it freely, mostly because I don’t care who reads it and also because I need to say things I couldn’t otherwise.

As 2016 started 3 days ago, I really felt like a change would be good so I HAD THIS BRILLIANT THOUGHT. Give up on this. You know what I am talking about¬† –¬† despite my honesty at all, I am really bad at blogging. I’ve tried and I failed, mainly because I lack the patience to write a proper review, I make lots of bad choices when it comes to my books and I can’t, in any way, stick to a plan. To¬† a blogging schedule, or something like that. I simply can’t. So, I decided that it makes no sense whatsoever to continue. Because it brings me frustration and it feels. Well. Not great.

But, you know, as this thought was settling in a pretty comforting manner, I went on YouTube. Never mentioned here before, but I have the tendency to go binge watch YouTube when I am sad or bored or simply because my brain is a very untrained vacuum consuming bad media over and over again.

I watched some ridiculously long ones and I can’t deny my enjoyment. They were real fun, but, except for the extremely loud intro and the colorful effects, I don’t remember much. And then, a peculiar thing happened.

I clicked, almost unconsciously, on one of Ariel Bissett’s videos.

I love her. Not in the ” oh my God, I hope I am you when I am 21″ way, but rather.. she is inspirational in an uncomfortable way, that being one of the reasons for which I am not always in the mood for watching her videos. But. She was making some sort of review of 2015 in books and basically everything else and it made me starve for something creative. Here comes my urge to write here.

And I have an idea, you know. I have my sort of twisted form of bucket list, a thing in which I will probably stop believing in  when school starts, in 7 days, because that is exactly the type of thing that I would do, but I think I have it figured out, you know, and that it really great.

I always tell people that I love reading.I love it so much, I would like to do it forever and ever. I would like to talk about great books, collect them, reread them, recommend them.

I always tell people I love writing. I love it so much, I would like to do it one day, you know. Write great books. Write plays, write poems, write essays.

I always tell people that I love drawing, painting, art.  I love them so much, I would like to do them one day.Illustrate books, have exhibitions, write books about Van Gogh and feel fantastic about it.

I always tell people that I love knowledge. On all those Buzzfeed quizzes I take without purpose, I choose knowledge when they ask me what I value above all. I am a Gemini, everybody tells me that I should be like that – wanting to know. And I am. Or used to be. Or I feel like I am.

But I have realized I don’t read as much as I should or could. I don’t read things to get inspired by them.

I don’t write nearly as much as I could. Or should.

I don’t paint or draw or try to do it in my own way as much as I could or should.

I don’t learn. I don’t dream as much as I should or could. I don’t grab my laptop and search interesting facts about bees or Beethoven, but rather waste my time. W A S T E, it screams, in the fifth dimension of space.

And I find that, you know, awful. A W F U L.

And this blog is not much of an instrument when it comes to mending many of my issues with time management, understanding and destroying my habit of taking to many Buzzfeed quizzes, but, you know, I really want to write more.

God, I want to make a habit out of writing. At least 10 words a day.

So, when something good comes out my brain, I will post it here.

Also, I hope you don’t really mind me,but I had to put my thoughts around here. I also can’t really keep a journal, because I am horrific at it, but I try to do some sort of a similar thing here. I hope it woks for me this year. I hope I turn crazy from all the places I will have gone and I become some sort of an artist. I hope I LEARN THIS YEAR.

For you only

I haven’t posted in three days, because Christmas has been happening and it made me really happy. I don’t know for how long I’ll be able to write here – I am trying to make this feel like a telephone call, you know, I have no idea if it works, I really hope it does.

I want to say “Merry Christmas”. I don’t care who reads this, it’s therapy enough for me to write this. A blessing to all of you.

I hope you are well, I hope you are loved. I don’t know if you celebrate Christmas, maybe you don’t, so Merry Anything.

I hope the weather has a good enough color for you, I hope you have faith an stars. I hope you can hear music and read books and shower yourself in the miracle of what this world is.

I hope you found yourself in shapes and mirrors and clocks and the back of your rooms. I hope you look at the sky and it smiles back at you. I hope you smile at somebody and make their hearts tingle. I hope you are well.

I hope you’ve tried chocolate and I hope you can run. Not away, but run, free yourself. I hope you can travel. I hope you have traveled. I hope you want to see it all and understand it all. I hope you are curious.


I hope you find solace in books. I hope you find  it all in art. I hope you know what to do with your life and I hope you regret nothing.

I hope you let grief wash over you and welcome fear at your table, to teach it how to behave. I hope you welcome light in your heart, through your cracks and through holes too meaningful.

I hope you don’t find this overwhelmingly cheesy. I hope you get my good thoughts and hang them in your Christmas trees and in your ear holes. Wear my small presence like cheap earrings, once and then forgotten.

I hope you are all good and incredibly and ridiculously festive.

Love forever ,* cheesy cheesy cheesy , but it is Christmas , is it not?*


Childhood Movies & Bits of Russian History

¬†Heart, don’t fail me now
¬†Courage, don’t desert me
¬†Don’t turn back now that we’re here.

Really inspired, aren’t I?

Have I fallen into the deep pool of melancholy? Yes. Oh, and how I have, but it doesn’t bother me, not in the very least.

Because having rewatched “Anastasia” tonight, after so many years, has brought lots of things back on my mind and gave me an idea for today’s post. The one which was not, in fact, supposed to exist, due to my greatness.


I was blunt in my way of explaining that title I wrote there and I’m just realizing it, but I am not going to press “Delete” because I want you to feel like you are listening to me rambling about one of the only coherent things left of my wondrous childhood. Which you basically are, after all.


Ten years ago today ( I have no idea whether the date is the 19th of December or not, but it was cold outside and snow was falling hard and the house was warm and smelled of burnt earth, so I am just going to pretend, for better aesthetics, that it was the 19th of December.).

Ten years ago today – or something like that – my parents came home with a cassette. We used to have this machine in which we would introduce the cassettes and watch movies. Cartoons. “The Titanic” one million times. That time, it was “Anastasia”. People had come at our house for some sort of loud celebratory reunion, I have no idea what it was. But on the small screen of the voluminous TV we had back then, the tale of a lost Russian princess was taking form. And I remember how my father accidentally stepped on the small piano I had back then and how I couldn’t bring myself to care because it was cold outside and the translation to “Once Upon A December” has rhymes. I was haunted by this song. Sort of. I was haunted by the idea of musical box. I have been haunted, ever since, by how beautiful the name Anya sounds to my European ears and how wonderfully similar it is to my own name. I’ve pretended, for years and years, that my old plain Ana was short for Anastasia and I was the lost princess of some glistening kingdom.

Far away, long ago,
Glowing dim as an ember,
Things my heart
Used to know
Things it yearns to remember


If you aren’t aware, this animated movie ( which is not a Disney one, for that matter ) is based onto the controversial death of the Romanov family , back in 1918, and the hypothesis that one of the five children of the family, the youngest daughter, Anastasia, might have survived the execution. This possibility, one of the most approached theories of the 20th century, was demonstrated to be false during the 70s.

The plot surrounds the journey of the true Anastasia, ten years after the Revolution, in 1926,struggling to find her family, as she couldn’t remember a thing about her past, Dimitri¬† – the kid who had saved her, during the revolution, from being taken by the Bolsheviks, along with her family, and the one and only love interest – and Vlad, a guy who used to be part of the Imperial Court, to Paris, where the mother of the Tsar, Empress Maria, had managed to escape. While adventurous and interesting, it needed a dark side, didn’t it? So we have the second component of the plot – Rasputin, the Russian monk whose legend is closely associated to the Romanov family, had cursed them, announcing their deaths – by managing to escape, Anastasia threw him in some sort of anti-place where he couldn’t actually reach his powers or the human world, but rather discomposed in a¬† very slow manner. So when he finds out he actually is alive and well, he decides to send his creepy green minions that actually look like some sort of fluorescent bats to kill her. They fail, obviously.



I don’t want to make this a sum up of the movie, but rather a formulation of a question that has popped into my mind. A question that I feel the need to ask, but I don’t believe I can do it without offering you some historical background.


This is the full soundtrack of the movie, simply fantastic. Great. Wonderful. I suggest “Once Upon A December”, “Journey To The Past
” and “Prologue”.

Because, as much as I love this movie –¬† the characters, the graphics, the lines, the music, the atmosphere , the music again and again – it is terribly inaccurate to the Russian history. Terribly. An euphemism, almost disrespectfully regarding a matter which I have no idea how to approach, because I don’t know if Russians look upon this violent episode of their history with sorrow, or rather see it as a step in their development.

So. Historical context.

The last dynasty of rulers the Russian people had was the Romanov dynasty, Tsar Nikolai II, father of Great Duchess Anastasia, being the last Tsar Russia would ever have. He and his political system were to be violently removed in December 1916 by the Bolsheviks. Two years later, his whole family would be executed.

My question is, then –¬† is watching and making popular such historical – related works of fiction, that clearly diverge from a very crude and painful reality, romanticizing it greatly, a good thing?

Truth to be told, this movie was what would spark, years later, my interest in Romanov’s history. The reason for which I did quite some research and read some books and.

I’m going to stop here, I suppose, for I don’t feel in the position to talk about historical manners as if I have a great historical knowledge. I don’t. But these things passed through my mind while humming “Once Upon A December”.


See you tomorrow.

Again, not literally see you .




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 .


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.

Sagrada Familia – in which I recommend something and write nothing about Barcelona

Hello people

Welcome (back)

I’m here to talk mostly about my life today, no excess of bookish stuff, but artsy stuff going on – fun fact – I actually mess around with brushes paper and paint when I don’t read and I’ve been loving Antonio Gaudi since I was 10, I think. Just so you know.

NOTA BENE (in which I am going to recommend you some things the whole world has already heard about, probably *better late than never*)

I want to share something with humanity. I found these pretty epic, e p i c , E P I C things to listen to today, while searching numerous variants of “He’s a pirate” because today, people, 16th of June ’15 I watched the first “Pirates of The Caribbean” film and “awesomeness” is the best word to describe it. I don’t know about you, people, but I love Jack Sparrow forever and I honestly believe Will Turner is kind of more beautiful than Legolas. I don’t know yet,we will see. So. While overusing YouTube in order to find some epicness to listen to, we (me and my lovely lovely friend) stumble upon this “almost-weird-but-not-that-weird-because-internet-offers-us-way-weirder-variants” type of name – “Two Steps From Hell” – and we are like “Um, I don’t know, what type of music can such a name inspire? But, know what, the pictures are cool, let’s give it a try”. And damn, I am so fantastically happy that we did because – 1. I figured I love this type of music – it is liquid inspiration and such a lovely base where your imagination can start doing its own nice work. , 2. We realized that THAT song from absolutely every cool movie (or maybe not, but I don’t know, that particularly familiar song) is called “Heart of Courage” and it was like “Woah, I feel like I’ve lived under a rock for a while, but that is totally fine, I am illuminated now.” aaand 3.I want so badly ¬†to save the world after listening to these for a while. Save the world or write an epic fantasy crucial for humanity series. Save the world, write a humongous and wonderful set of books OR read one. But, the urge to save the world right now is unbelievable. Really, go on YouTube, find this channel and try something random, all seem pretty.. you know, making you want to be fantastic type of things. So they are great and you’ve probably heard of these a gazilion years ago but for my fellow hobbits, here you go. Also, check out Mozart’s “Lacrimosa” is so unbelievably beautiful that it made my heart shrink and expand repeatedly. So beautiful it leaves a hole in your stomach. So beautiful your inner tiny world crumbles for a while.

So, if you feel in the mood of being the totally capable of saving the world human being with a huge soft spot for Mozart and art, check these out. They might make your day the same way they made mine.

I am pretty incoherent today, But I am pretty happy as well so I guess incoherence goes just fine with joy.

Also, I wanted to mention that I read “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern (lovely name, lovely name, you are even more welcome if you get what I’m saying ) the other day and liked it a lot – not like a love story or fantasy story working by itself, but like a fantastical love story between the circus and the reader – all about the ambiance in this book and I loved that. When I decide to shut this device I am writing from down and get my kindle near, I plan on starting a dystopian series by Marie Lu, called “Legend”, I think ( that is the name of the first book, anyway and people seem to enjoy it loads, I hope I like it as well). I’ll see.

Anyway. That was all.

It rained today

It rained today. And, God, I was so thankful for that. So happy. God. It rained.

And it is not like I haven’t seen rain or water for a decade and I’ve already passed the evanescence of my body because of scorching ¬†heat and I am some sort of desert dust now and it is not like I was thirsty to death and it is not like I am some stupid sort of mermaid that had traded her gorgeous teal hair and golden eyes for two stupid legs and desperately needed water pouring out of the sky because she’d realized the human prince is a mess and so is the human world and she wanted to take it all back. No.

I just prayed for rain. Because sun , so much sun, so much heat, so many burnt people and so much reddened skin and so many sunglasses and so much rush and such long days and so many things that smell like summer and pity -they all exhaust me. And then it rained. Heavily , like east and west had decided to break up right in the middle of the sky and take all the substance with them in opposite directions. Like the sky was colliding inside itself. Beautiful.

And the people, the stupid people, they were running, their bags clumsily put on their heads, as if they were afraid that their painted or white or braided hair will grow along with the rain, to the earth, in long and heavy and guilty strands that will wrap around them and drag them down, down, down. And I can’t understand people’s fear of rain, of water, of wind, of nature. I don’t understand what in this world could be wrong with having your hair messed by the wind or having a leaf caught in your braid or getting mud on your feet or green grass on your legs. I can’t comprehend how we lock ourselves in our oh-so-loved fortified castles of civilization and forget how to let the toxic air we exhale out of our fortresses and into the earth and into the braided bones of earth and rock.

And I don’t say this as a human being living in the woods in the company of deer and books (even if I wish I had). I say as a freaking human being.

And a pluviophile. Dendrophile. Nyctophile. Astrophile. Thalassophile. Photophile. Chionophile. (This is a whole enumeration of beautiful words and they might sound as weird as I feel overdosing this post with Latin related syllables.)

I like sunrises and bad weather and cold and light I love light sometimes when it is just as cold as me and not insistent and not wanting to read the whole of who I am.

But I hate sun. And warmth and heat and it rained today. It rained on me today and in the streets of the little town I was in, talking to my teacher about my essays and homework and how ink spills. And then, it was raining on the trees that are stationed on the ridiculously hollow avenue I waited my bus on. There was heat still lingering in the bus, tho, heat and dust, but there were few people and the windows were cold and it was raining.

I’m sure you don’t know what actually struck me and left me sad and in awe and made me write this. I was in my seat,in the bus, the one near the cold window, “The Master and Margarita” by Mikhail Bulgakov open on my knees and the bus was passing some fields on the way home because the village I live in is really nice and surrounded by fields and fields and a quite nice river and woods, and on that earth I could see beyond my cold window were sunflowers. Thousands of sunflowers and all were so disorientated and so lost because the sun had been swallowed up by my rain and I didn’t have the time to feel guilty for them – all of them were bathing in mesmerizing air with their petals facing the earth but I swear , for a second, I swear they seemed kids, kids morning a time not spent but wasted kids woken up after a deep and silent sleep kids of small light and fires. And I swear it was the saddest yellow thing I’ve ever seen.