Tag: Writing
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That space carried my solitude, my hopes, my dreams, and the first sparks of who I was becoming.
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… two people repeating “Wi‑Fi” at each other like confused parrots.
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For a dear and special friend — who steadied the moment, translated the chaos, and answered the phone as if she’d been waiting for it. I’d been living in Silesia for only a few weeks, and it was the first time I felt truly out of place — I was tired that night. A bit…
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She had probably seen me before, without me ever noticing her.
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I often thought of Jeanette Winterson’s novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit — except for me, they were.
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Cake isn’t Bread One of my earliest misunderstandings came when I wandered into a cukiernia near my hostel in Łabędy, I was determined to buy something — anything — other than a banana and a self-serve bułki from Biedronka, just to prove I could manage elementary Polish. I can still see the trays of cakes…
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Half-awake most mornings, I found myself wondering whether they ever swapped places just to confuse the guests.
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… but why buy a watch that says POLICE?”
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Sometimes a memory returns the way snowfall does — quietly, without urgency, settling only where it’s welcome.
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Soon after, the train arrived. An emerging shape in the whiteness, slow and deliberate, like a creature pushing its way out of a snowdrift. The front was plastered in ice, snow packed into every crevice, the sides streaked white as if it had been travelling through a blizzard for hours. I was stunned. It didn’t…
