Today, I arrived in Rome. After years of poring over books about Roman history and art, I am finally here. And it’s more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. I sense the feeling of being at home. A familiarity, although it’s my first time in this place.

After eating a plate of freshly made pasta, I meandered through the streets, obsessing over buildings that had flowerpots in windowsills and orange trees growing in courtyards. I listened to old ladies speaking Italian and carrying groceries, felt my heart burst overtime I saw winged angels carved in stone and then I sat on my windowsill watching passers by. I feel like days don’t really get much better than that, and these are among the many reasons why I travel. To fill up. To pour out.
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From this life to the next.

Sometimes days go by and I don’t even remember that life isn’t forever. That one day, we won’t be here. Eating dinner, talking about love, warm showers and hopeful kisses. Where do all these memories go, when we are gone? Can I bring them with me? I’ve made a life out of these memories; these moments have made me laugh, made me cry, made me feel warm and even alone. But they all mean something to me and I can’t bear the thought of letting them go.

I walked down the street in Copenhagen today, there was a lady standing in the middle of a roundabout feeding the birds with bread that she was picking out of a plastic bag. The birds gathered around the crumbs and some circled overhead. I had seen those birds yesterday and they made the sky, beautiful. I took a picture of them, creating patterns in the air, giving life to the grey beyond. It made me wonder how often this lady comes to feed the birds, her behaviour seemed quite habitual in nature and it made me love people.

It’s easy to forget about all the good little things that are happening everyday in the world. But if you take the time to look, they are everywhere. Those seemingly small moments, sometimes they mean everything. And maybe it makes me greedy, but I hope I get to remember those moments from this life to the next.

Hej, Copenhagen.

Uncategorized — Tags: , — Mel @ 5:01 am


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“Do you wanna leave soon?
No, I want enough time to be in love with everything…
And I cry because everything is so beautiful and so short.”
– Marina Keegan



There is a word that cannot be directly translated in English, that accounts for the deep longing of what it means to miss someone or something; a moment in time. Unrequited love or the passing of someone dear; someone you no longer see. It is maybe the saddest and most beautiful word I have heard, in a long time. This word has been brought up in two different conversations this week by two different people. I am unsure of what that means, but I know it resonates with me.

“Saudade, is a word in Portuguese and Galician that has no direct translation in English. It describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves.”


We all spend so much time pretending.

I’m not thinking about you, I swear. I am actually really busy. Important.

But if I could be honest and if I were unafraid of rejection, I would say…

You are the most beautiful thing I have encountered in a long time and I spend most of my day thinking about you and the funny things you say. The way your hands feel on my body. The things I wish to do with you.

And for the most part, it hurts to feel all these things.

.The Moon.

“Whilst we encounter their archetypal presence most directly through our experience of gender, we must not allow such obvious polarities to divide us, for at our very core we are neither male nor female, man nor woman, god nor goddess, but an alchemical fusion of both and more: a potent force of creative and destructive power, none of which is right or wrong but simply part of the universal order.”


Sometimes you can find your heart in the most unexpected of places. London, I’ve only just gotten to know you but I know that I love you.
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I write you a letter that begins
With I love you and ends with I love you and
Somewhere in the middle is one goodbye for
Every hurt
― Patricia Smith

the heart

The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.


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