15 May 2016

Previously on

I've always feared of doing it all wrong, of missing important footsteps in the life of a child, then a teenager, then an university student. So these first thing that came to my mind when this morning I thought "What I have been doing in the last months?," the first thing was "nothing". But it is not true.

First of all, I chapped off 30 centimeters of my hair, and I'm liking it. Sometimes I miss my bun and my bread, I must admit, but this may be the start of a new short (-ish) haired Alice. I also changed my glasses. I still liked the old ones, but they broke in December and my sight got worst (again), so it was time for a new pair.

That said, I think it's important to say that I got used to Bologna. I even think that I will miss it. Which is quite ironic, considering how unhappy I was to come here. The university courses did not satisfied me completely, this is true. But the city looks familiar now, I found my pace, I made friends. And not just people with whom spending some time, but people that I enjoy having around.

1 May 2016

There is the face of this girl

There is the face of this girl
that keeps coming to my mind
almost every time I close my eyes.

I remember dreams of her
when the rays wake me up,
gently, as a caress, as to say
I’m here again, but you don’t have
to jump out of the bed, 
not yet. Love, the Sun.

We talked once or twice,
the girl and I,
or three or four 
if you count the nods,
which I don’t some times,
which I do the others.

I’ve always told stories to myself
to accompany me in the unconsciousness,
but I don’t seem to need them anymore,
not here, anyway.
I fell asleep every night,
a literal jump into the void.
Who knew that Bologna was the one
that could put me to sleep.

The stories reach me not matter what.
After all, they have their own lives.

- You wrote a poem about me
she told me few hours ago
- How could you know?
I panicked in my new bed.
- You wrote a poem about me.
- Well, it’s not finished yet.
- You are writing a poem about me, 
then. She corrected herself.
That lazy cat’s smile, again.
And I don’t know if I’m dreaming
or I’m telling myself another

old, brand new story.

*little poem written months ago

23 Apr 2016


Here I am again. I tried to close this blog, to open another one and be inspired again. That didn't work. So here I am again. This is the place where I wrote and shared pictures for so much time, I've not be able to leave it for real.
I am back. I changed the aspect once more time. I got caught up in making my blog look a certain way for such a long time, never satisfied, so I decided to get back to the simple.
I hope you guys will stay with me.
See you soon,

17 Nov 2015

Notes from Bologna.

I’ve taken a break. From writing and recording. I’ll feel sorry for not having words and pictures, I know, it will be so hard, remembering how the streets of Bologna looked like the first days in which I had to double check at every corner that I was walking in the right direction. But living those same moments is more important, I guess.
It’s a month and a half since I’m here. Days keep losing themselves, somewhere, but I don’t know where. I planned to have a night out with some schoolmates, but we already came back home after 3 am last night, we and our Neapolitan taxi driver. So instead I’m home, drinking hot tea from my Badass Feminist mug and finishing a book I have to read for class. I’m also planning a hypothetical trip to London for the LIMUN next February with M. and P. I miss the city. And the idea that I will be in the UK in less than a year does not win over my desire to flight as soon as I can. It actually feeds it.
It’s a month and a half since I’m here and I’m doing more than what I expected, but still, it doesn’t seem enough. Maybe I am not fair with myself. I need time to adjust, to find my rhythm. 

I find so hard, living in the present. To not wonder and worry about what will happen next. To plan and feel exited and feel guilty. 

18 Oct 2015

Few stupid rhymes by a bored student

Throwback to high school
and it's not Thursday yet.
I feel treated as a mule,
around other mules I just met.

She is speaking, speaking, speaking,
but nothing is actually said.
Outside it's still raining,
but it's not something that I dread.

My hopes where high above the sky,
too high for my own good.
I'd prefer to be a simple passer-by,
oh, yes, how much I would!

List for Bologna

Toothpaste, brush, deodorant. 
Three gray skirts. Two pairs of jeans (blue and black.
Shirts: the black one, the white one, the one with the dogs, the jeans one, the one with the pink roses I haven't wore yet.
The new pink shirts with the leopards, the white and black cotton ones, the white and black short sleeves ones. 
The black, the mustard yellow and the cherry red shoes, the old white converse.
Two pairs of sheets for all the hours I’ll spend on my bed with the computer. 
Enough books to travel on busses and trains without having to talk to strangers.
The gray coat for when it is cold, the trench I brought on sale for when it rains, the denim jacket for when the spring will be back.
Earphones to watch films until late night with the head on the pillow. Headphones to cut out all the voices while walking. 
Bathrobe and towels. 
Shampoo, soap, conditioner. Shavers for when I’ll feel like shaving.
A couple of cameras and more films then the ones I could use, especially in the first weeks when I won’t be comfortable in taking photos of people I don’t know well enough. 
My Kanken backpack, the black bag, the red pocket, the teal and black bag my mother hates. A couple of cloth ones for the grocery.
My perfume.

6 Oct 2015

The taste of defeat

I wake up with a taste of defeat in my mouth as during the night my body has given up from the inside and then do you still wonder why as a child I never wanted to go to bed and denied that my eyes were almost closed and my breath was getting
s l o w e r
c  a  l  m  e  r
d   e   a   p   e   r
and why I starred at my computer until two three four in the morning now, until my eyes burn and my body is numbed and I simply cannot stand being conscious not even a minute longer.
I pretended of being afraid of the dark because that's waht you are suppose to be afraid of, but I didn't know that I will have been for real, not much later. Dark means night means sleeping means waking up means a new day. And the new day scares the hell out of me. More than spiders and car crashes and loneliness and bad grammar and salespersons.
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