(Part 1)

I needed to wake up earlier to get to work. My routine consisted of having a quick shower and fighting with the small shelves I shared with everyone else in the house. The tiny wood pieces behind an insultingly small mirror couldn’t handle all my skincare chemicals. Hyaluronic acid, amino acid extract (only for when my forehead would be especially dry), serum, SPF body milk and a tiny bottle of squalene oil. Everything planned to ground me, to try to make some sense of my life choices. I remember refusing to be a victim. I would not give up on my skin routine. I would be miserable, but I would look great.

I used to cycle to work, perform my stupid tasks, go back home. Go to the gym two times per week, prepare my meals and when was necessary, do the washing. Yes, crossing that road in my own private purification ritual. My life was what was happening in between glass Tupperware-s and walks in between the house and the shed. Fun fact, both the bathroom and the shed had a cheap chess looking pattern that I would end up finding annoying for the rest of my life.

I found myself mindlessly scrolling through my phone, not knowing what I wanted. My friends used to message me. Shallow text bubbles appeared on the screen in form of answers to my social media posts. The number of texts went down quickly over time. I tried to keep up, I really did. But wellness acted as a filter for human relationships. Most of them fade away when they encounter difficulties. Few stayed. I ended up having green tea on Thursdays and having cutesy dinners on Saturdays. I called less people, but when I did, it went on for the longest time. I have never been big on calling. I belonged to that generation that did not pick up the phone due to anxiety levels, but I developed a weird tendency to understand calls just as healthy communication channels. Quality over quantity became a rule regarding social relationships ever since. Now, I am that person who calls a lot. And proudly so.

A year passed, and my social tabletop game changed like the wheel of fortune. The therapy sessions moulded me in a forge of silence as a new version of myself. It felt weird, it was hard, I did not enjoy every part and I don’t know if I would do it again. But one thing was defined for good: the only thing that never changes is that I would need to learn and change repeatedly. I don’t remember exactly how or why I moved back. I was not ready. But I was tired of not being ready, I was bored. I was exhausted. I was not scared anymore.
I never believed in luck. Who does it? Those whom things are going well do not, since they believe that they achieve everything with their effort and hard work. For the unfortunates, there is no such as thing as luck. They never had it, they have never experienced it, so how could they believe in it?

Not all of us have the same luck. We all come from different places; we all have different stories to tell. We all travel different paths, even if it’s to the same destination. And yet somehow, wherever we have come from, wherever we are going, we are still the same. We have experienced the same struggles, the same injustices, the same pain, the same relief. We dream the same.

I still do not believe in luck. At least not as this mystical entity that shows up like a fairy godmother. But I do consider that luck can be manufactured. Luck is not a shooting star or a letter appearing by surprise. Luck is being prepared when the time comes. Luck means constantly being ready to change, to learn something new. Luck is knowing the right people and knowing when the time is right. Luck is somehow, a skill. Luck is taking care of myself. Luck is not to give up and to make the right choices, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

The next house was located in between Liverpool Road and McKenzie Road, right in between Highbury & Islington station and Caledonian road station. A two floor and a half maisonette with a tiny terrace and a weird complexion that got four homosexuals (three of them friends) together under the same roof. The living room was L shaped; the kitchen had a huge black mirrored table with a ceiling to floor window and the washing machine and the dryer had its own separate little room next to the toilet. The housewarming party was very sensible, a get together of blazers and crazy colours drinking sparkling wine and cheap gin that ended up with some Spanish reggaeton that the English attendees danced very badly. No one went off script, no one went crazy, and no dialled a dealer. And somehow, everything was not the same, but better.

I somehow got accepted in a Creative Writing BA. Is one of those things that I genuinely forgot. I applied, went through the process, and sweated blood and tears while walking back and forth to do the laundry. And suddenly, without expecting it, I was a student. The weather seemed to celebrate too. The trees on Islington looked like vigorous ancient spirits that demanded attention. The small parks shone bright green and the sunlight reflected uncountable beer bottles on Highbury Fields. We got drunk. Life was good.

I change houses again. Deeper to the north. North wheezy, as they say. And I got another boyfriend. A boy that was taller than me, younger than me. A boy that called me out and yet never made me angry. A boy that was kind, caring and smart. But not full of himself. A boy with the goofiest moves and the most perfect jawline. I met him on a dirty dancefloor, by chance. I was having a good time, and I think he was too. I met new people, and some others were lost forever. But not remembered with malice or bitterness. Just gone. Like the chess floor, the gloomy station, and the long walks to the tesco with an angry grimace. I told myself things that I would never think I would say out loud.

I told myself for the first time that I always wanted to be a writer.

I repeated to myself that I was sick of being lonely.

I told myself that I was not scared anymore.

We live to tell stories. In a bar, on the internet. To our friends or lovers. Telling stories is somehow stored deep down in the DNA of the humankind. When writing, I create a world. A world that breathes. An iceberg. An Iceberg that no one cares about. The reader only wants to consume the story that happens in that world. The tiny penguins sliding down and plunging in the cold water. That’s the exciting part. Not the boring ice structure. The story it’s just the tip. We humans are built in a similar way. We show the people a small percentage of ourselves. A highly curated greatest hit. The dance number ones, the great ballads, and the amazing music productions. The best of the best. There is much more of us that stays hidden, out of sight. Often, the idea of something is much bigger than the concept itself. Hollow icebergs cross the road to load the washing machine once again. It looks like something, and it functions as one. But inside, they are empty.

Direction in the future is as important as making sense of the past and being present in the moment. Life is this strange game of being able to constantly learn, while still enjoying the moment and having a plan. And three of those things need to simultaneously happen in time.

Direction is impossible without sense. Make sense of the past. Learn. Let the bad go. Use the senses in the present. Live. We are just playing with time. The game of pretending to be dumb until something clicks and happens. Suddenly is not sunny outside anymore, but it doesn’t matter. I found my new house, a lovely three bedroom flat with people I love near Archway.

It’s April, and I tweet:
It turns out that being actually authentic pays off at the end instead of just doing it performatively. Who would have predicted it, huh?