EN: New beginnings and tiny revolutions

19/7/2016 – Chiny, Belgium

Listening now: Saidah Baba Talibah – Revolution

Hey babes!

You might have seen that I changed the title of my blog (and all my social media, really) for CRLNVRVLT (if not it’s all fine, just pretend you did and I’ll do as if I didn’t perceive it). Also, I thought I needed to give you all a bit of an explanation about it (because I know you won’t be able to sleep anymore if you don’t understand why and I am very much worried about your rest, as you can see). Alright, let’s get started!

So it’s been a while that I wanted to make some changes on this blog. Since coming back from England, I felt like this wasn’t the right platform for me to express myself anymore, as -as you might already know- this blog was meant to be the tale of my life in London, as a capsule of that particular period of my life, somewhere behind the sea. Also, quickly, I figured out that the purpose of my blog would never be the same, and subsequently, I didn’t want to direct all my attention to the same audience -exchange students- focusing on my travel experiences.

For that reason, for a looong, long time, I was wondering if I should start a new blog all over again, or just completely  redo this one. Although at first the idea of a brand new blog attracted me, I quickly felt like I didn’t want to abandon my old one, which was still an important part of me. After all, somewhere behind the sea has been the testimony of the person I used to be, a part of myself that I need to acknowledge and still welcome within me, so I didn’t see why I should leave this behind me, as something I would be ashamed of.

Thus, for a moment I decided to expand the subjects I was writing about and change a little bit the look of this blog. But somehow, I still felt like this wasn’t enough, thinking that I needed a clearly more drastic refinement than just that. So here we go. This is the first of all the adjustments I am gonna do. Let that be a way for me to reintroduce myself to you, a fresh new start which will allow me to begin something new:

CRLNVRVLT stands for my full name (it’s basically my name without all the vowells). I felt really reluctant naming my blog after myself, as I thought that not only this would appear really self-centred and therefore probably less attractive to an audience, but also it would give too much a way about my identity and I must say that I appreciate a little bit of privacy while sharing my personal life and opinions on the web (I am full of contradictions, I know..). I hope the way it is now feels like a good compromise to you (at least it does to me, and at the end of the day, I think it might be the most important) and that you won’t have too much of an issue to memorise it (this shouldn’t be a problem, as you hopefully don’t have Alzheimer).

So from now on, this blog will be a way for me to talk about all the things that I absolutely love and despise. I will tell you all about what is going on in my head, in my life, in my kitchen, in my dressing and even in my library. I will talk about the music I listen to and the places I go. But most importantly, I will write about my life journey, often trying to figure out who I am for myself, sharing the experience of my twenty last years on Earth with you. Hopefully, this new approach of my blog will be more attractive to you, and will allow further exchanges between all of (yo)us. So don’t hesitate to leave a trace of your passage, commenting and sharing, here or on my different social media (if you’re so keen, you can even follow me, of course.. but then again, no obligation there, it’s just a suggestion if you fancy it):

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/crlnvrvlt/
Instagram: http://instagram.com/crlnvrvlt
Snapchat: crlnvrvlt
Pinterest: https://uk.pinterest.com/crlnvrvlt/
Spotify: felicidalegria (note that it’s the only platform where I didn’t manage to change my username.. but I’m working on that too!)

One last thing before leaving you: that would be really nice if you could suggest me some stuffs that you’d like to see on this blog.. Or others that just don’t interest you. Your feedbacks mean a world to me, and help me to improve and reflect on this blog (and your experience) very much. This said, I’ll see you soon for other tiny revolutions, until then, take care of yourself!

Much love ♡



EN/FR: A year in music/ Une année en musique

7/7/2016 – Chiny, Belgium
Listening now: 

Music has always had a significant place in my life. I have this very special custom (which I believe hope I am not the only one to have), to listen to a track in repeat mode for days when I love it. Subsequently, some tunes end up feeling like the soundtrack of a particular period of my life, so that every single time I hear it, I’m instantly thrown back to the places and the moments which match the song. This, I believe, is the power of music (well, irritation from my beloved one’s is also quite strong one -and a totally legitimate consequence of my bad habit – but sorry I’m just not sorry about that).

Just a little bit more of a year after the end of my exchange year in London, music has always proven to be the best way to dive, deeply nostalgic, in the remnants of the memories of that specific time of my life. Also, I constituted a Spotify playlist of all the tracks I used to listen to while being there, just to ensure myself to have some good material to let the saudade invade all my body, close my eyes, and remember all the wonderful instants that shaped this amazing trip.

So if you were in London with me, I hope you can feel it all again. The art lessons, the tipsy singing in the train, the chill afternoons in the parc, the lonesome moments in your bed, the gospel choir, the Croydon nights out, the 109s, the long Drama rehearsals, the pesto-pasta cooking, the vintage markets and all the things in between. And if you weren’t, well.. I hope you’ll have a good time listening to this playlist, and that it will give you a better insight on my exchange. If you enjoyed it, please don’t hesitate to subscribe to my Spotify. I’ll see you soon!

Much love ♡


La musique a toujours eu une place essentielle dans ma vie. J’ai cette habitude très spéciale (que je pense espère ne pas être la seule à avoir) d’écouter un morceau en boucle pendant des jours lorsque je l’aime. Ainsi, certains airs finissent par sonner comme la bande sonore d’une période particulière de ma vie, de manière telle qu’à chaque fois que je les entends, ils me projettent instantanément aux endroits et moments associés à la chanson. Et c’est sans doute ça, le pouvoir de la musique (enfin vous me direz, celui d’irriter mes proches à force de ma mauvaise habitude est aussi un pouvoir assez puissant).

Un tout petit peu plus d’un an après la fin de ma seconde rhéto à Londres, la musique a aussi su faire ses preuves comme étant le meilleur moyen de me plonger, profondément nostalgique, dans les vestiges de ma mémoire de cette partie spécifique de ma vie. Ainsi, je me suis constitué une playlist Spotify de tous les morceaux dont j’avais pour habitude d’écouter lorsque je vivais là-bas, afin de m’assurer d’avoir de quoi laisser la saudade envahir tout mon corps pendant que je ferme les yeux et prends le temps de me remémorer tous les instants précieux qui ont fait de ce voyage ce qu’il était.

Donc si tu étais à Londres avec moi, j’espère que tu peux ressentir toutes ces choses une deuxième fois. Les cours d’art, les chants pompettes dans le train, les après-midis calmes dans le parc, les moments seuls dans le lit, la chorale de gospel, les sorties à Croydon, les 109s, les longues répétitions de théâtre, la cuisine de pâtes au pesto, les marchés vintages, et toutes les autres petites choses. Et si tu n’y étais pas.. Et bien j’espère que tu prendras du bon temps en écoutant cette playlist, et que ça te donnera une meilleure idée de cette année d’échange. Si elle te plaît, n’hésite pas à t’abonner à mon Spotify. A très bientôt!

Much love ♡


EN: About love and other bullshits #2

5/7/2016 – Chiny, Belgium
Listening now: Delilah – Strong for me

A few months ago, I wrote an article (which you can read here) while processing my break-up from the only serious relationship I’ve ever had, which also partly meant mourning my ex-boyfriend – or trying to, at least. Back in time, I remember feeling more and more distanced from him while being abroad, thanks to the ability of travelling to remote you from the things you have to deal with. Also, it felt like I went over it, as I barely thought about him anymore.

And then I came back to Belgium more and more regularly. Saw people I used to meet while being with him, and went back to places I used to go around during our relationship. For the first time in a long, long time, memories started to emerge, and with them, lots of emotions I thought I would never have to cope with anymore. It was like if everything reminded me of his absence, everywhere I went here. So I found myself like a complete psycho, tracking every single post of my ex-lover, anticipating all the events where he could be and, of course, losing my mind every single fucking time he would contact me – or answer kindly to one of my message, for that matter. I was helpless. Again.

Although I can clearly understand why this happened at that particular period of my life, as I was terribly vulnerable and more in need for love than ever, I was still mad about myself. Because even though in my head I could completely rationalize the fact that I wasn’t with that boy anymore, and explain why with reasonable reasons, there still was a tiny part of my heart which was fancying him, and secretely hoping he would come back some day. After all this time, I never succeeded to kill the hope and it felt like a total failure to be that desperate post break-up person again, when I thought that I was over it and used to mock badly those kind of people.

But still.. When I saw him for the first time in two years, and perceived that he was giving me some attention, I felt deeply recognized and somewhat important. When he stood for me publicly – for what felt like was the first time ever – and started to engage in a loooong conversation, to finally text me that he would love seeing me again soon and take the time for a deeper chit-chat.. I first felt hesitant. There was this part of myself which realised how even more different we were from each other. The one that would also think that there was no good in meeting him again soon, at least not by our own. Unfortunately, that piece of my brain was quite tired that night and decided to answer later on.. Terrible idea. Also, it took me a day to process all the informations and try to clear my mind. Once again, I started to idealize our relationship and was all flatered that he would pay attention to me. Now let me have a word about idealization. I am not an expert of relationships (see by yourself), but if there is one thing I learnt during these 20 last years.. It’s that the magnification of any kind of thing is never a good thing. It blurs your perception of reality and is generally followed by a hard fall when you end up perceiving things as they really are. But enough disgress, let’s go back to the essential: So the stupid subdivision of my heart (or ego, I don’t know anymore) which was all flatered that he would pay attention to me went mental and decided that after all, it would be a wonderful idea to spend time together again. Oh my.. What’s wrong with you Caroline?

I literaly went crazy. No need to pretend that this wasn’t the case and that I had the situation in my hands, because I really didn’t. This terrible decision turned me hysterical. I started to imagine a hundred situations in my brain, with what I pretended was him but was actual an ideal version of a lover that never existed. I also spent two hundred quids on underwears (don’t judge me), and while realising that I was completely losing control, called a friend for a bit of reassurance. Then, I headed for what I fancied calling a date (but wasn’t, really), somehow hoping that he would regret dumping me three years beforehand, by recognizing how such a sweet babe I am. Yeah I know right.. Ridiculous.

So we met. It was nice, really, but nothing more. Just.. Nice. By walking next to him and talking about our respective lives for hours, it just appeared even more clearly how so different we were from each other. I also understood that no matter how nice he could be, he would never be the person meant to be with me again, because we could simply just not bring to each other what we needed. He was and will still be a really important person in my life, but not that special one whom I will recall the sweet memories of loving days in repeat mode with anymore.

Understanding that felt pleasingly right, as it meant that I wouldn’t have to feel guilty or ashamed from being with him again, nor to explain awkwardly to my beloved ones that I successfully managed to get back with him. But it also felt terribly sad, while I became conscious that during all those years of mourn, his existence was for me synonym of love. He was the only person which made me experience it, and therefore the one which I would refer to in that matter. For an extraordinary long time, I identified him as being love in itself, when he was only the form it took for me at a particular moment of my life – no need to specify that this moment was now far past. This realization was remarkably bittersweet, as it meant giving up on the convinction that there was someone right for me somewhere in this world. Now don’t get me wrong: even though giving up on him means that I have no proof or certitude that this love exist anymore, only hope that it does, I don’t think that I’m doomed to celibacy for the rest of my life – far away from that, I think that this new understanding might help me to go ahead and start forgetting the poor boy in order to, why not, begin something new and exciting with someone else (thanks god!).

To be continued.. Much love ♡



EN: About inner wars

26/5/2016 – Rotterdam, Netherlands
Listening now: Chet Baker – Almost Blue

Here is a post about inner wars, the ones you fight within yourself for many years in silence, hoping that one day you’ll finally win. As I’m writing this, I can feel my heart beating wild and crazy. This is such a sensible, and obviously personal topic for me. Hopefully you’ll like it. If you do so, please like it and share it around you. Much love ♡

I was only 8 when my parents divorced. Resulting from it, my dad has been interned in a psychiatric hospital due to severe depression for a few months. Back in time, my parents lied to me, telling me that my dad would be working in Italy for a while. I guess they had their reasons to hide the truth, but never in my life have I been so angry and disappointed than the day I discovered their mascarade. It was the first time I felt truly betrayed by someone, and it happened to be by my parents. That exact same day, my mum took me apart, and told me how such a big, smart girl I already was for my age, and made me swear not to repeat it to anyone. So as I had no other choice, I promised.
There had been two times I failed to keep that heavy secret. The first one was the day I confessed it to my childhood best friend. Even today, I remember exactly the moment this happened, because it was such a huge deal for me. The first time I veritably opened up to her – and to anyone, really. I told her with my own words, my child, sweet naive words, that “My dad is in the hospital for people who are really, really sad”. And I still remember her reaction, a few days later, when she dismissed my talk, answering that her parents told her that there was no such thing. Today, I understand that her parents were trying to protect her. But back in time, you can only imagine how much I regreted not to have kept my mouth shut.
But life went on. I learnt to separate clearly what was going on at home – the strange illness of my dad and all the things that resulted from it – to the rest of my life. I established clear, distinctive boxes between all the different parts of me which, even today, I still have much trouble to transgress. There was -and is- what was going on inside me, and the rest outside, and I was very careful not to let any of my profound feelings get out in the external world. Also many times, I found myself crying all my soul at home for a while, before going out, displaying the big smile of the cheery, positive girl I was.

In order to exist by myself – so not through my dad’s sickness – I tried to distinguish myself from everywhere I belonged to. I guess that was my way to subsist in my parents’ minds, who were much preoccupied by their own problems. At school, I was a very good student – maybe even one of the best. I took drama lessons in order to have a stage where to express myself and played piano because my dad liked it so much. I was the girl every parent could have dreamt for. Never causing troubles, and so responsible. From outside, you wouldn’t have even tell that I was dealing with so much back in time, and guess what? That was exactly the point.

Sometimes,  I would have a break, the chance to play or sleep over at a friend’s house, being able to take some distance from the madness. But this would mainly act like a mirror, underlining the gravity of my own situation. Because unlike them, there wasn’t any happy parents who loved each other at mine. No dad to be angry at me if I didn’t do my homeworks, nor to read me a story before sleeping. On my lucky days, I could only hear his distant, sleepy voice over the phone. So while being reminded of his absence, I felt every time a bit more alienated from my friends, who couldn’t understand what i was going through.

But one day, I let it all go. As my educator wanted to force me to eat my lunch, I started to burst into tears, telling her that I wasn’t hungry since my dad was in the hospital. For the second time, I felt the colossal weigh of guilt falling all at once on my shoulders, as it seemed to me that I betrayed the promise I made to my mum once again. Coming back home that day, I was so shameful that I couldn’t even look at her in the eyes.

Not being allowed to talk about this disgrace with anyone and hearing other children (and even adults) making pun about psychiatric hospitals, while insulting each others of being insane and disabled, I thought for a very long time that this was exactly what mental illnesses were about: being crazy. As a child, I internalised that message, burying deeply inside me this perception of depression as a weakness, something to be ashamed of. Something so inglorious that I had to hide it from everyone.

So little by little, I started to fear becoming like my him. I was so anxious about catching this strange, nameless disease that would make me feel so much sadness inside my heart. This sore that would make me become so instable and extremely mad for no reason, or laugh with that weird expression that would even scare my own children. I started to fear that something was so rotten inside me that it would drive me apart from the people I loved. Also for years, I didn’t allow myself to feel unhappy. I believed that if I feigned happiness, then I would be a happy girl. But obviously that’s not how it works.. There was always this sadness inside.. This little bit of Caroline that still didn’t cope with the disappearance of her dad in her life.

Because even if he was a bit strange, aggressive and scary, he was still the guy who taught me how to ride a bike. He was the person with whom I found my first four leaf clover, started to drive a car and played cards with on rainy Sunday afternoons. He was the arms in which I would curl to have naps while watching Arte documentaries and the one who showed me how to make music out of a grass leaf. He was all that and so much more to me. He was my father.

Eventually, I got used to his absence, and accustomed to the fact of having to face all the challenges that life put on my way all by myself. And for a long time, it was doable. Until my accident. While hurting badly my head and facing physical damage from my fall, I started to find myself incapable to endorse any bad feeling anymore. I just couldn’t take it. It felt like my brain refused to absorb anything else, forcing me to let it all go. I was helpless. Slowly, but surely, depression found its way to me. I spent months curled up in a foetal position in my bed, not going out for days, unable to do anything but cry for no reason. More and more frequently, I went back home because it felt like it was the only place I did not have to deal with anything – not even myself anymore. It seemed that everything was collapsing around me. I was diving so deep that I felt submerged and suffocated by the weight of these dark years all at once. And just as I thought that things couldn’t get worse, my dad attempted to commit suicide.

Sometimes, I believe that you have to touch the bottom in order to be able to go back up to the surface. At the pinnacle of my vulnerability, I gathered all the strength I had left, and seek for help. If I am still not at a hundred percent at the best of my abilities, I can now see an end to that dark, winding road I took for so many years. I know this will be a long process, because I still have a few battles to fight before winning the war, but I am definitely ready to work on it.

My story is only a story among million others. 25% of the European population is suffering from either depression or anxiety every year. And more than a quarter of deaths in Europe are due to neuropsychiatric troubles. Yet, in 2016 people dealing with mental illnesses are still marginalised. The taboo linked to this condition is so powerful that some people feel ashamed to look for help. Asking for help isn’t a failure, it gives you a means to succeed. Don’t let the secret consume all your energy. Depression isn’t a sign of weakness, it occurs when people have been strong for too long. And if you don’t have any kind ears to listen to your story, nor a soft shoulder to cry on.. I’m here for you.

FR: Résilience

11/2/2016 – Rotterdam, Pays-Bas
RÉSILIENCE (ou la capacité de remonter sur ton vélo après une chute difficile).

Je me souviens d’un dimanche après-midi chez ma grand-mère durant lequel nous avions longuement discuté de ce mot -résilience- et de sa signification pour chacun d’entre nous, chacun y allant de son petit grain de sel, selon ses expériences personnelles. Mon expérience à moi, c’est mon vélo de course bleu. Au début, j’avais un gros vélo dit “de ville”. Il était vraiment vieux, et c’était difficile pour moi de rouler (même sur du plat – sans doute qu’il n’y avait pas que le vélo qui était gros après tout). Alors comme c’était difficile, et que je n’aime vraiment pas transpirer, je prenais toujours les transports en commun. J’ai toujours aimé les transports en commun, je trouve ça fascinant de voir tous ces gens tellement différents regroupés dans un seul et même endroit dégueulasse, et j’adore imaginer la vie de ces personnes, leurs gros chagrins, leurs petits bonheurs, et tout le reste entre les deux. D’ailleurs souvent, il m’est arrivé de rater ma sortie en rêvant, mais ça, c’est une autre histoire.

Et puis un jour, j’en ai eu vraiment marre de me lever si tôt pour passer autant de temps dans un endroit aussi répugnant (le métro, donc), et puis en m’observant dans le miroir, je me suis dit que c’était peut-être bien vrai après tout.. Que c’était moi qui était grosse. Alors comme c’était juste pendant les périodes de Noël, j’ai décidé de faire bien les choses, et de m’offrir un vélo. Mais pas n’importe quel vélo, non! Un vélo de course bleu. Cette bicyclette, je l’ai vraiment beaucoup aimée. Je crois que d’une certaine manière, elle m’a prouvé que j’étais pas une si mauvaise sportive après tout, puisqu’il m’arrivait même de dépasser des hommes en roulant (chose qui ne m’arrivait jamais auparavant) qui s’empressaient d’accélérer la cadence juste après, ne supportant sans doute pas de se faire doubler par une jeune femme.

Enfin bref.. Avec le temps, mon tout nouveau vélo n’était plus si nouveau. Une des roues commençait légèrement à se dégonfler et un jour, j’ai même cassé le frein arrière. Ce jour-là n’était vraiment pas un bon jour. Il pleuvait terriblement dehors, et je me souviens être presque en retard et devoir rouler huit longs kilomètres sous la pluie. En rentrant chez moi, j’étais bien fatiguée, il faisait bien noir aussi, et il avait bien plu. Alors ce qui devait arriver arriva.. Je suis tombée.

Je ne vais pas rentrer dans tous les détails – parce que mes souvenirs sont assez troubles, d’abord, un peu douloureux, ensuite, et puis parce que je ne suis pas sûre d’avoir envie de tout partager ici. Mais après m’avoir trouvée couchée et inconsciente sur la route, on m’a emmenée à l’hôpital. Là-bas, des gentils docteurs m’ont passé toute une série d’examens. Et en regardant attentivement mon cerveau, ils y ont trouvé une petite tâche sombre. Ils n’ont pas scanné mon cœur, mais s’ils l’avaient fait, je suis pratiquement sûre qu’ils y auraient aussi détecté de l’ombre ce jour-là.

Et c’est là que la résilience intervient. Car depuis, il m’arrive toutes sortes de choses. Je me suis remise à prendre le métro. Mais maintenant, c’est moi que les gens observent. Moi et mon œil au beurre noir, avec leur regard empli de pitié et de bons sentiments qui me dégoûtent. J’ai aussi des maux bizarres, qui me rappellent cette chanson de Passenger où il dit: “Only know you’ve been high when you’re feeling low”. Le son des sirènes des ambulances m’effraient en me rappelant la noirceur de cette nuit. Et puis il y a ce vélo de course bleu devant ma porte d’entrée que je n’ose plus conduire.

Je suis certaine qu’avec le temps, tout cela changera. Que le doux chant de la vie finira par reprendre le dessus sur les cris des ambulances et que cet affreux hématome qui recouvre mon crâne se dissipera. Seulement tu vois, je m’interroge. Comment ça se fait qu’après autant de temps, tout cela me hante toujours autant? Pourquoi cette douleur lancinante à la tête ne veut pas me quitter? Et ce chagrin dans le fond de mon cœur, cette tristesse permanente? Hein? Dis-moi donc pourquoi je ne suis pas capable de remonter sur ce putain de vélo comme si de rien n’était, et de continuer ma route, sans même me retourner pour vérifier que personne ne m’a vue tomber? Parce que moi j’aimerais bien.. J’aimerais bien affronter d’autres nuits noires pluvieuses sur ma bécane, et recommencer à me croire invincible et plus forte que tout. Oh oui, j’adorerais ça! Ou encore mieux, reprendre cette bicyclette en prenant conscience de la fragilité de la vie et en la chérissant plus que tout. Ce serait pas top ça, dis-moi?

Si je partage cette histoire avec toi, c’est que je sais qu’on a tous nos petites chutes à vélo. On finit pas tous à l’hôpital – fort heureusement – mais bien souvent, ça ne nous empêche pas d’être réticents à continuer de pédaler. Alors si toi aussi tu t’es fait des petits bobos et que ça ne va pas fort bien, je voulais juste que tu saches que t’es pas tout seul. On est tous là, à tenter de remonter sur nos bécanes pourries en sifflotant tant bien que mal et figure-toi qu’un jour, on y arrivera. En attendant l’ami, je te fais un doux bisou sur le front, prends bien soin de toi!


EN: About you

20/11/2015 – Rotterdam, Netherlands
Listening now: Adele – When We Were Young

Dedicated to my disabled slave.

And my hand, in the emptiness, was still waiting for yours to guide me in the darkness. Still hoping for a bit of warmth in the cold night, some light in the obscurity. And the silence of the evening seemed to echoes the sound of your laugh, which, similar to a sticking plaster, used to fix the most profound injuries of my mind. And my eyes, desperate, were searching for a comforting glance of yours, a promise for you to always be there. And my lungs suffocating were looking for your breath, as a mist in the dull, an invitation to stay alive.

But only remains your silence in that railway station. A shy smile, as an ultimate attempt to  suppress the sobs. My eyes avoiding yours, while something seemed to burn inside me, as if you were already gone. An embrace as a final grasp before the valediction. And at last, your escape while the wind of change wet your green eyes. Later, your perfume slowly fading away, while reading a few words written on paper, as a reminder of who we used to be, highlighting the solitude which follows your absence, the hollow resulting from the distance.

This, only to let you know that my heart keeps thinking about you. My soul still projects memories of our time together. My eyes remain sparkling while talking about you. My lips continue smiling, remembering. And my hands, missing you, keep praying, writing “forever”. I don’t know how long this is gonna last, but yes, I guess this could be considered as a desperate call to get you back, a hazardous attempt to catch the fading memories which constitute who we are. An audacious willing for you to come and grab my hand, walk silently on the highway of life and keep laughing about stupidities, crying for people who don’t deserve it, arguing kindly, singing loudly in the streets, running late after our buses and trains, dreaming awake, wandering curiously and above all, loving fiercely, anytime, anywhere.


EN: Thousands reasons to be happy

27/10/15 – Rotterdam, Netherlands
Listening now: Tom Rosenthal – Going To Be Wonderful

Watch sunsets. Play piano and feel my fingertips getting warm. Listen to babies laughing. Dream. Smile to strangers. Discover new places. Meet people who understand me. Have real deep conversations. Go to the African Market. Cycle. Run in the rain. Laugh until it hurts. Sleep in the arms of somebody. Watch a really sad movies and cry like hell. Be positive. Go shopping. See poppy fields. Receive flowers. Have naipolish on my nails. Smell the perfumes of people I used to know. Dress nicely. Listen to good music. Share things with people. Learn new things. Walk in the woods and listen to the noise of dry sticks cracking. Eat sea fruits. Spend time with people I love. Decorate my appartment. Cut vegetables. Read a nice book. Travel. Listen to people’s stories. Understand new things about myself. Learn good news. Grow. The smell of freshly cut grass. Ikea ice-creams. Hear people talking portuguese. Dance. Listen to jazz music Admirate people’s happiness. Bookstores. Make projects about futures. Do something nice for some stranger. Embrace the unexpected. Take a long, warm shower. Watch people in train stations. Say yes. Long eye contacts. Feel sensual. Crack my knuckles. Beards. Have sex with someone I love. Feel connected to the present. Read old letters. Eat my mum’s dish. Sleep naked. Get wasted. Remember good moments. Change my plans at the last moment. Hear indie songs while waking up. Go to a concert. Cook apple crumble. Close my eyes and pay attention to all the sounds surrounding me. My studies. Clean my appartment. Smell fresh air. Meet someone I didn’t see for a long time. Take care of my stuffs. Write. Make smoothies. Hope. Dance weirdly when nobody’s watching. Scream of happiness. Eat a brunch. Take photos. Be lucky. Admire landscapes from the window of a train. Feel tipsy. Debate. Jump in puddles. Smell baking cakes. Babies clothes. Feel the warmth of the sun of my skin. Admire the trees changing of colours in autumn. Holidays. Wear red lipstick. Jump above posts in the street. Drink Caramel Frappuccino. Tease someone. Smell freshly washed laundry. Vintage clothes. Cut my hair. Go to the museum. Do stuffs with my hands. Perform a nice play. Interact with people. Watch old photos. Smile for no reason. Feel desired. See old couples in the street. Be amazed by people’s kindness. Find something in the street. Get kissed on the neck. Feel the wind in my hair. Walk with high heels. Eat salmon. Help someone. Surprises. Realise one of my dreams. Try new things. Love. Have a massage. Sing. Write letters. Receive letters. Eat soup. Go to bed early on winter time. Watch the stars. Admire the flashs of a storm. Be careless about serious things. Speak a foreign language. Hear bird singing. Drink Cappuccino with cream on the top while eating rainbow cookies. Take a bath. Listen to songs on repeat mode. Hear a classical song that I can play. The smell of the rain on the pavements after long, dry days. Get recognised for something I did good. The satisfaction of well-done work. Go to bed after a productive day. Eat mapple pecan. Know all the lyrics of a song. Swim naked in the sea. Act silly. Feel small and terribly human, going to the mountain. Remember memories I thought I forgot. Art Post-cards. Put energy on projects I care about. Wedding dresses. Very nice gifts. Unexpected moments. Forgive. Feel meaningful and important to someone. Listen to music in my bed. Maracuja juice. Sort out and classify things. Wear perfume. Feel pretty. Fruits salad. Feel warm when it’s cold outside. Find something I lost. Call my mum. Deep voices. Get lost in a new city. Watch one of my childhood/teenage series. Strangers complimenting me. Catch bubbles. Smell flowers in a garden. Be early. Thrift shops. Smell books. Feel excited about something. Imagine. People’s good vibes. Meet my friends’ parents. Street art. Men. See signals in things. Christmas songs. Babies smell. People cooking for me. Eat greek yogurt and cruesly for breakfast. Do lists. My mum reading fairy tales. Watch the news. Wear fancy dresses. Read magazines on the plane. Buy books. Change bed sheets. Feel relieved. Eat goyabas. Stand still on a very busy place. Feeling overwhelmed after performing.