cinnamonmemories-blog

[cinnamonmemories-blog]

I just had a flashback, that dind’t smell like cinnamon.

It was almost two years ago, my first summer in Germany. I was with my roommie and we went out with two guys. I don’t even remember how did we end up with them, but we were all exchange students and we were friends. I remember we were just hanging around in that small city, from one part to another, cuz one of the guys had a car there. It was just a lighthearted night. One of those beautiful and simply not planned nights. We found our selves on a panoramic point, talking about random shit while admiring that endless landscape of nightlights. Freedom could be breathed in the air. And laughs. We even lied down to look at the stars and then the dawn came. It was so late yet so early. I feel the peace just remembering that moment.

[cinnamonmemories-blog]

I started to hang out with people on exchange in my city. I find it really exciting: I see my own home town in a brand new perspective. Anyway, there’s a French girl who I really connected with and her boyfriend came to visit her. Let me say just one thing about them: love. I love them. I love how they love each other. I love to see the love. To watch it. To perceive it. You see them and you almost feel part of it. 

All I could think was “I want that”. I fucking want that. D almost gave me that, but I fucking need the whole package, what they have. I need to feel the love, not to wonder if I am feeling it. I need to receive love, not to question if I am receiving it. I need give love and know that what I’m giving is authentic and it’s not in vain. I need love and I want love. And I will have love, I just don’t actually know when. 

Tonight was a great lesson. It’s so easy to settle for less than we deserve. And I am constantly, inevitably, on the edge of doing that. Of pretending to want less. Tonight I had the prove that love still exist and it’s not just in my parents’ marriage: it still can exist nowadays even among people of my age. Love still does fucking exist. I should remember it. I should write it on a post-it and fucking stick it all around my room. Love does fucking exist and it’s waiting for me as I’m waiting for it. And it will come. But a thing like that, a real love as the one my friend and her boyfriend have.. the complicity, the conniving glances, the jokes, the harmony.. this is not something easy you can find as a surprise in your Happy Meal. Love is amazing and people search for it during a lifetime.. how could I expect to get it so easily?

I am just 22 years old. I know I’m young and it’s all about being patient and enjoying your time while you spin around until you find that sole reason that makes you want to stop. But sometimes it’s just so hard to bear this in mind. 

[cinnamonmemories-blog]

You know when they say it doesn’t matter what *insert a random guy’s name* thinks of you, rather than what you think of yourself?

I acknowledge that. I know what those words mean. They make perfectly sense and I find myself to repeat them in my mind again and again. Yet there are some moments when it’s harder to remember them. There are moments when you’re drunk and you just think “Damn, he’s so cute” and you’re a human being with their flaws and weaknesses, but you stay focus. And in the end nothing happens, cuz this little voice is still inside you, somewhere hidden in your subconscious. 

And when the day after, in a huge hangover and zen state of mind, you just play again those blurred memories in your brain, you still feel disgusted by yourself. I feel so ashamed about me for even just having thought about the possibility of having something, even jusst a kiss, with a guy like that. A guy that’s nothing more than a pretty face, a guy that doesn’t give a shit about other girls’ feelings, a guy who’s so full of his ego and who needs to get so fucking wasted to be brave enough to go for a girl. You know, these kind of people, who seem so self confident and yet are scared as fuck about intimacy and comparison, those kind of people who hide themselves behind an exaggerated number of dirnks.. those, are the worst. But we don’t see that sometimes. We put on these “pretty face googles” and it’s over. They’re so hard to remove, aren’t they? God, I thought I was done with this shit but appartenly I haven’t grown up yet. I’m still able to chase a drunk guy in order to get attentions. Fuck what he thinks of me, what do I think of me is that I don’t like who I was yesterday night and hopefully I won’t let her out again. I’ll do my best. 

[cinnamonmemories-blog]

My name is Paula and my memories smell like cinnamon.

Hey you random someone that happens to find themselves on this blog :)

First of all, whatever reason led you here, feel more than free to wander around. My name is Paula and this is my world.

I am a 22 years old human being, future master student of European studies, born in Argentina, moved to Italy when I was 10 (well, my parents did, but I like it here of course!), just came back (to Italy) from a year in Germany (Erasmus semester + 7 months as Au Pair). My life is a continous movement hehe. I love languages: mi lengua madre es el español, anche se parlo italiano il più delle volte; my English is quite fluent, mais j'ai étudié français aussi und natürlich rede ich ein bisschen Deutsch. Tja.

My memories smell like cinnamon. Is that weird to say?

I came up with the idea of a (second) blog a couple of hours ago, when I bumped into a little cinnamon jar in my kitchen. I used to like cinnamon, even though I wouldn’t say it’s ever been my favourite spice. However, one evening my ex boyfriend (German/Greek) felt like cooking (his version of) spaghetti alla bolognese. Without turning this story into a cooking lesson, this implied a huge abuse of cinnamon in his personal recipe. I ate the whole plate. It was sickening, but hey, we all have been there, right? I told him it was really good. He loves cinnamon and he was really proud of himself. But that was the last day I ever had cinnamon so far. Especially now that we’re not together anymore. You’ve seen this coming, haven’t you? 

I know I’ll be better, but I still miss him sometimes. And my memories smell like that tremendous quantity of cinnamon, yet. Anyway, I’ll keep my feelings, my memories, my questions, my screams, my tears and my laughs on this blog, until someday, someone will achieve to make me have cinnamon again as a normal spice and sweep away this smell from my memories.

Hope you will enjoy reading my shit, but it’s more about my need to write it rather than the need of anybody else to like it.

Good morning. And in case I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening and good night!