Sunday, 9 December 2012


I’m standing in the middle of the street, perfectly still. My face is turned towards the dark sky. My eyes are closed and little white flakes are gently landing on my skin, instantly turning into tiny water drops. My mind goes blank for a few short moments. I’m not thinking anything, I’m just enjoying this perfect moment.

Then I slowly open my eyes and try to soak in the beauty of this perfect night. Everyone and everything is asleep, I’m the only living soul on the street. The world is sleeping and I can’t hear a thing which makes me feel powerful and weak at the same time.

I turn back and watch the fresh footprints in the snow. Snowflakes are slowly filling the marks my shoes made and I’m thinking if the same happens with our deeds. Do deeds of other people eventually cover our deeds until they have completely erased any sing of our acts and existence?

I continue my way towards our house, knowing that in the morning my footprints will be gone and hope that my deeds and my existence won’t go unnoticed.

Tuesday, 27 November 2012

100 words: Blank

I make myself a proper cup of tea and sit down at my desk, the blank Word document already open. I’m slowly sipping my tea and thinking; nothing funny or smart comes to my mind so the document remains blank. I open a new blank document in Pages, hoping that changing my writing tools will make a difference; it doesn’t. I finish my tea and go to bed, hoping that a relaxing atmosphere will make my mind burst with inspiration; it doesn’t. The documents stay blank and soon I give up, close them both and start watching a dull film.

Monday, 5 November 2012

The surgery

I’m sitting in the waiting room and suddenly the big door on my right opens. Everyone in the room looks up, hoping that their name will be called, except for me. I’m signing the agreement, amused by the demand that my nail polish must be removed prior to the surgery.

Surprisingly, a voice calls my name and I get up, looking at the bright red polish on my nails. People look at me with mixed feelings on their faces; some are sympathetic and other are angry because I’ve just came to the waiting room and I’m already being admitted.

I walk into a room where a young woman cries and moans uncontrolably, obviously still affected by anaesthesia. Two nurses are standing at her bedside and are desperately trying to calm her down, unsuccessfully.

“It’s not that bad“ one of the nurses says and looks at me reassuringly. I nod and swallow a mouthful of saliva, probably looking scared like a little girl even though this is not my first surgery under general anaesthesia.

In the next fifteen minutes or so a bunch of people come and ask me a lot of questions. Will this be your first surgery? How much does it hurt on a scale from one to ten? When have you last eaten? Do you smoke? I patiently answer all their questions and after a short consultation they decide that it really is necessary for me to be under general anaesthesia; the removal of the infected wart on my heel would be too painful if they’d use only local anaesthetics.

The last thing I remember is me lying on the bed in the big white room, with an oxygen mask on my mouth.

“You’re not holding the mask properly“ I say, being the control freak that I am.

“Don’t worry, everything is just fine. You’ll fall asleep now“ the anaesthetist says and a cold liquid sprinkles my feet.

“Hey, don’t start just yet, I’m still awake…“

A pecking pain in my heel wakes me up and I realise I’m lying on the same bed where I answered all those questions. The surgery is already over, judging by the bandaged leg. And the pain.

“How do you feel sweetie?“ a nurse asks.

“I’m great but it hurts quite badly.“

“We can give you more painkillers but in that case you’ll have to stay here for at least two more hours.“

“When can I leave otherwise?“

”In about half an hour if everything’s ok.“

”No painkillers then, I want to go home as soon as possible.“

Monday, 29 October 2012

100 words: A little boy

Although the clocks moved back we slept in yesterday. I’ve been told that there will be snow this weekend but nonetheless the big white flakes falling from the sky took me by surprise when I passed the kitchen window, still half asleep.

“It’s snowing hun“ I said and he literally jumped out of the bed, with sparkles in his eyes; he transformed into a little boy for a short moment.

I caught him staring through the window several times during the day and each time I saw that little boy in him, happy and enthusiastic as only children can be.

Sunday, 14 October 2012

Snapshots: The theatre

Standing in our bathroom, I take one last glance at myself in the mirror and nod in approval. We’re going to the theatre and I walk the fine line with my outfit and makeup, I don’t want to over do it, but I still want to look appropriate.

“How do I look?“

“You look perfect, as always“ he answers and kisses me on my cheek. That doesn’t help much but I secretly smile, satisfied.


We're waiting at the bus stop, talking about the performance we just saw in the theatre and at the same time, we both notice a young man in his late teens, with a bottle of vodka in the back pocket of his pants.

“He’s probably a freshman, stocking up for a wild party“ I say, thinking of my first year at the university and smiling.


The bus arrives and as we're walking towards it I notice a girl I vaguely know. She is a friend of a friend and we aren’t in good relations since our friends birthday. She enters the same bus as we do and we successfully ignore each other. I’d say hello if there would be any eye contact but I prefer to go my way without interacting with her.


Just as we're settling down in our seats a young boy sits in front of us and draws a bunch of papers filled with some sort of equations out of his bag. We both lean forward, curious what they might be but I quickly give up, knowing that equations never were my strong point.


I lay in bed, hugging him tightly, deeply inhaling his perfume. My body relaxes as his scent fills my nostrils and I close my eyes, feeling safe and happy.

Tuesday, 9 October 2012

100 words: To the left

I sit at my table and look to the left where a kitchen sink full of dishes is waiting for me. I wish the kitchen wasn’t visible from my spot.

Then, once again, I look to my left, where on the table next to my computer two thick books are waiting for me to read them.

Lastly I look at the computer screen, where a blank white page is waiting for me to put words for my new blog post on it.

I decide to execute today's tasks in reverse order, starting with the pleasant ones and slowly start typing.

Sunday, 23 September 2012


I'm sitting on the sofa in the living room, rolling my eyes as the noise from the other room is getting louder and louder. I try hard to concentrate on the documentary I’m watching with my mom but loud high-pitched voices coming from my sisters' room are making it quite impossible.

I look at my mom on my right, poker faced, and admire her patience. My not-so-little-anymore sisters are now screaming and she just watches the telly. I’m wondering if she learned to ignore their endless fights or if she is just trying very hard not to loose it.

Just as I am about to get up, go to their room and try to talk some sense in to them the sound from their room disappears. I hear a sigh of relief from my mom, indicating that she’s not immune to the chaos after all.

Wednesday, 5 September 2012

The queue

We all patiently queue; I’m third in a line of about eight students. We’re all here for the same reason – we’re about to submit our thesis.

I look in my file and check for about the hundredth if everything’s in there. Three forms, four copies of my thesis and one CD. I gaze at the latter, wondering when was the last time I used it; I honestly can’t remember, I guess it’s truly out of date.

A girl walks out of the office, smiling and another one nervously steps inside. The line moves forward one short step.

I look into the office where eight student counsellors work. Obviously three of them are not working today. I turn around and notice that two more students lined up behind me.

A tall boy leaves the office and the girl in front of me walks in. I move one step closer to the door; I don’t really see the point of making that small step but I feel socially obligated to do it. That’s how we queue, the line must move forward.

Thursday, 23 August 2012

100 words: Falling leaves

I watch the leaves falling from the trees as I walk through the woods. Red, orange and yellow leaves separate themselves from the branches one by one. They remind me of children who grow up and leave their parents, just like leaves leave the branches.

Watching the nature dressing itself in vivid colours and the falling leaves makes me sad; it reminds me that my favourite season is coming to an end and that once again I’ll have to wait nine long months for summer to return. I’ll look through the window every day, craving for the long hot summer.

Thursday, 9 August 2012

The escalator

Mr Starlight and I were going down an escalator when we saw them; her, faced upwards and him, turned with his left side toward us. Both of us immediately knew that they had a huge argument, probably just a few minutes earlier, it was plain on their faces.

She was wearing a lovely white summer dress with a wide red belt and had an angry look on her face, with traces of determination. He was looking around, confused, nervously licking his lips when he looked her way. He never looked at her, just in her general direction, probably checking out the territory.

In the middle of the escalator, we quietly slid past each other, them avoiding any look and us watching them carefully. The second half of their ascent went unchanged but it seemed like it took forever.

“I wouldn’t want to be him right now” I said as they disappeared through the doors at the top.

Photo taken from here.

Friday, 29 June 2012

100 words: A heat wave

We had a cold spring with rain throughout April and May and even the beginning of June. My craving for summer got stronger with each passing day, as it does every year. I love hot summer days although it sometimes gets so hot we can't do anything else but just breathe.

About two weeks ago it finally came in all its glory and my smile got wider as days became hotter. I couldn't study during the heat wave and, to be honest, there wasn't much I could do at all, but I was happy nonetheless, embracing the warm sunny days.

Friday, 22 June 2012

A distant father

We were sitting in a Thai restaurant, enjoying our lunch, when a father with his two daughters occupied the table next to ours. He was making a business call when they walked in and didn’t end it when they were seated. His daughters, one of them about ten years old and the other probably fifteen (you can’t be sure with today’s teenagers, can you), were reviewing goodies in their shopping bags. They purchased quite a few things – a few pairs of shorts and blouses, some jewellery and something from the bookstore.

The scene reminded me very much of my childhood. My parents are divorced and when M. (my biological father whom I call by his first name because he doesn’t deserve to be called Dad; for the purpose of this story I’ll name him M.) remembered from time to time that he had a daughter and picked me up, he usually took me to some dingy pizza place (dad at the next table at least took his daughters to a fancy Thai restaurant, I’ll grant him that), and he always spent half of the time talking on the phone about some very important business that couldn’t wait.

I glanced toward the family on my right and met the younger daughter’s gaze. She quickly turned her head away and I felt angry with myself for giving her an unintentional but obvious sympathetic look. It felt like I was trapped in a time capsule; one moment I was sitting in a Thai restaurant with Mr Starlight and the next I was in some pizzeria with ugly interior design, trying to amuse myself while M. was occupied with a phone call and some woman sitting at the next table looked at me with pity in her eyes. There was always a woman who looked at me and felt sorry for me and I’m wondering if they too had similar experiences with their distant fathers.

After finishing his phone call the father directed his attention to the menu and when the waiter left with their order a couple of minutes later, the three of them looked awkwardly at the table, probably wondering what to say to each other. This was the first and only distinction between them and M. and I.
M. is a very chatty person and he was always bragging about something; either his new car or the holiday he and his girlfriend went to, but most often he talked about his work. I don’t remember details from his monologues but I clearly remember one thing – he was always portraying himself as the best, a superhero of some kind. He was always a leader of something and someone; even when his own business went bankrupt and he worked for other people once again, he boasted about being the boss.
When we ran into someone he knew or went to visit his family I became the object of his praise. “Look at how pretty she is and she’s very successful in school, in fact, she’s the best in her class,“ he said over and over again. And that was pretty much all he could say because he didn’t really know me. On one occasion, when we were fighting over the fact that I didn’t call him Dad, I asked him if he knows what’s my favourite colour and flower. His answer was red and rose, which I both genuinely hated. “That’s why I don’t call you Dad“ was my answer and that was the last time he opened that topic.

I hope that those two girls are luckier than I was and that their father knows what their favourite colours and flowers are. I also sincerely hope that he isn’t usually as silent as a grave while spending time with his daughters. If that’s the case, those girls at least have each other while I… well, I have the best Dad I could imagine, someone, who deserves to be called Dad. Although he’s my stepfather it’s he who raised me, it’s he who was always there for me and he’s the one who knows that my favourite colour is green.

Sunday, 17 June 2012

The end

This time last year I hosted a series a series of guest posts about learning on my blog. I was busy studying and a bunch of lovely people helped me keep my blog busy. This year it's different. I’m in my fourth and final year of undergraduate studies and I have only two exams left. I’m planning to be done with those at the beginning of July and then I’ll spend the summer writing my bachelor’s thesis.

I’m not done with my studies just yet but I’m close enough to be nostalgic when I look back.

Studying political science wasn’t something I dreamed of as a child and it wasn't my first choice. Today I’m really happy I made that decision though, because I love political science and I think my professors (well, most of them) are absolutely brilliant. I know that I’d be very sad if it was my last year and I knew that I’d never see them again. I’m lucky enough to have a chance to continue my studies for another year and get my master’s degree if everything goes according to plan.

There are various feelings boiling inside of me; I’m happy, sad, nostalgic and excited, all at the same time. I’m within reach of my first finish line, there’s only a short distance ahead of me, two exams and some writing.

Photo was taken by my lovely friend Alja, you can find more of her magnificent photos here.

Friday, 8 June 2012


A couple of days ago me and my best friends had a girl's night out, celebrating a birthday. As the two of them chatted away I looked at them quietly, noticing how grown up we all are. We’re no longer teenagers sitting on a bed in one of our rooms, loudly talking about what we’re going to wear on our Friday night out and which boys we flirted with last week. We’re sophisticatedly dressed young ladies, sitting in a chic bar, drinking wine from proper wine glasses and chatting about adult stuff.

I don’t think we even see how much we’ve changed over the last ten years, mainly because we were changing and growing up together, confronting problems side by side, always having each other’s back. We aren't called trefoil for nothing.

Sometimes our friend's paths separate from our own and when we see them we immediately notice how much they have changed. A few weeks ago I met an old friend; in the five years since we've finished high school we saw each other only half a dozen times and it’s always nice catching up with her. Each time we meet I see how she’s changed her way of thinking, dressing, talking and so on. She has grown up and I like who she has become. I know I’ve changed too, perhaps much more than she did, and I truly hope that she also likes who I’ve become.

In recent years I've met a handful of people with whom I had developed a friendship; those relationships are somehow fragile in comparison to the longstanding ones. They are like a new-born baby, in need of more frequent attention. Just like we have to support a new-born's head because he is not yet able to hold it up by himself, we also need to take special care of our newly formed friendships. When we talk to someone new we usually carefully choose our words, we think twice before we say something simply because we want to make an impression.

Old friends don’t need to be impressed, they truly know us; sometimes they know us better than we would admit. And that’s the reason why those longstanding friendships are the most precious; those are the ones that are often neglected and taken for granted but should be given special attention because true friends are as rare as gold and worth much more.

As I watched my two Musketeers, drinking wine and smiling, I realised how lucky I am to have not only them, but many other friends, old and new.

Sunday, 3 June 2012

A perfect set of cups

Yesterday Mr Starlights parents visited our apartment for the first time and they had the honour to be the first people who drank coffee from our new tea/coffee set, bought just a few hours before its first use.

When we first moved to this apartment, almost two years ago, we noticed that we didn’t own a set of cups; a proper set of cups with plates, for coffee and tea. We had plenty of lovely mugs though, but none of them matching each other. We agreed that we must have a set of cups and added it to our shopping list but there was always a good reason to delay this purchase.

The main reason why it took us so long to buy a set of cups is that we don’t really need them. We don’t get a lot of visitors and those who come by regularly like to have their tea or coffee in big mugs because they drink it with milk. We also like hot beverages with milk (and two teaspoons of sugar, please) and those cups we already had proved to be very useful.

Unlike us and all the other people we know, my in-laws drink espresso. Plain black coffee; no milk, no sugar. A shot of coffee one could say. They usually drink it from small espresso cups and we wanted to be good hosts and make an impression; the visit from my in-laws proved to be a good reason to finally buy that coffee/tea set.

Choosing the perfect set of cups proved to be a more challenging task than either of us expected. An even harder one since we didn’t have the slightest idea what we wanted. It took us quite awhile to pick out a set that we both really liked but we finally did it.

Photo was taken by my lovely friend Alja, you can find more of her magnificent photos here.

Wednesday, 30 May 2012

The silver Maruti

A small silver Suzuki Maruti suddenly pulled over at the bus station and a blonde woman jumped out of the drivers seat. She ran in the post office and came out a minute later with a white envelope in her hand.

She sat in the car and immediately took off but stopped right in front of me, because of the congestion. She opened the envelope, read the letter and closed her eyes, her face turned pale.

It seemed as the time stopped for a few moments for us; the traffic moved forward while I was watching a desperate woman leaning her head on the steering wheel.

The spell was broken and the silver Maruti disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, left me wondering what the letter said.

Thursday, 24 May 2012

100 words: A storm

In a few short moments ominous dark clouds covered the city; they quickly crawled upon us and blotted out the sun. The colour of the sky turned from bright baby blue to a dark grey.

The temperature dropped rapidly and the air turned from hot to cold in a matter of minutes.

It slowly started to rain; at first just a few cold drops fell from the sky but it soon started pouring and a few short heartbeats later the land was soaked.

The storm moved on as quickly as it came; perhaps to another city in need of refreshment. 

Sunday, 6 May 2012

Different perspectives

I’ve often wondered, while exploring one foreign city or another, how the locals see their hometown. Do Londoners ever stop to admire The Palace of Westminster? Do Parisians ever go up La Tour Eiffel and enjoy the view? Do Barcelonans ever stop while running errands and admire the architectural masterpieces scattered all over the city?

On my trip to Barcelona a couple of days ago, while sitting on the wall of Castell de Montjuïc and admiring the panoramic view, I caught myself wondering how many times I visited Ljubljana castle. How many times I cared to go up there to enjoy the view? If I remember correctly, the last time was a couple years ago when my friend from the Netherlands was here and I was one of his local ‘tourist guides’. A couple of days later, when we came back from Barcelona, we went straight  to the centre of Ljubljana and I found myself standing in the middle of Kongresni trg, admiring the architecture of a building across the street and thinking ‘What is this’. After seeing the bell tower I realized it’s a church and, to be honest, I was quite disappointed with myself for not noticing the beauty of the city I’m living in.

After thorough consideration I came to the conclusion that locals and tourists see the same city from two completely different perspectives; in fact, they may not even see the same city but two entirely different ones. A tourist goes to a city which is, in some way, appealing to him; he buys a tourist guide or googles the facts about the city, reads about its history and decides which landmarks he wants to see. A local, on the other hand, takes that same landmarks for granted, his local history doesn’t seem so very incredible to him.

I still hope though, that Londoners stop in front of The Palace of Westminster from time to time, that Parisians go up La Tour Eiffel at least once in their life and I hope that Barcelonans are at least aware of the fact that they are lucky to be living in such an architecturally diverse city. 

Sunday, 29 April 2012

In the air

Future – 24 hours later, Sunday 29th of May, 7pm 
I’m sitting on an airplane to Barcelona as you are reading this. This is my very first flight and I’m scared, hoping that it will all go smoothly.

Present – Saturday evening
I’m sitting on the sofa in my in-laws living room and quietly tapping on my computer, writing this post and making plans for our trip at the same time. I’m excited and nervous, happy and scared.
I try not to think about the flight and I struggle not to panic needlessly. I prefer to daydream about exploring streets of Barri Gòtic and watching beautiful old buildings. I daydream about a long walk through Parc Güell, admiring architectural masterpieces of Antonio Gaudí, and a visit to el Museu Picasso de Barcelona. I daydream about smelling and buying exotic spices in Mercat de la Boqueria and sitting in una cafetería, slowly sipping coffee and watching the locals.

Past – lunchtime, Sunday 22nd of April
I’m sitting in a restaurant, having a lovely lunch with Mr Starlights parents.
“We were thinking,“ says my father-in-law. ”Do you have anything planned for next weeks holidays?“
His question draws our attention and we answer simultaneously. “No.“
“Would you rather go to Iceland or Barcelona?“

Future – 24 hours later, Sunday 29th of May, 7pm 
Obviously, we were ecstatic and didn’t know what to say at that moment. I am a city girl and I love exploring unknown cities so I preferred the latter but I didn’t say no to Iceland.
Circumstances ruled in favour of the capital of Catalonia and now here I am, sitting on a plane headed to Ciutat Comtal (City of Counts).

Photo taken from here.

Tuesday, 24 April 2012



[mass noun]
1a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one’s own achievements, the achievements of one’s close associates, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired
(pride oneself on/upon)
be especially proud of (a particular quality or skill): he prided himself on his honesty


We walked down the hall, both nervous and in anticipation; after hours of studying we just wanted to be done with it as soon as posible. I opened the door to the inner corridor and saw the profesor standing in front of his office.

“You're here for the exam, right?“ he asked.

“Indeed we are.“ I answered.

“Why, come inside and lets get this over with.“


Half an hour or so later we came out of his office with our heads raised high, proud of ourselves and happy because it went very well. 

Thursday, 19 April 2012


It was a cold, somber spring morning and I firmly grabbed the pole as the bus pulled out, trying to retain balance in my high heels while my iPod was playing Starlight by Muse.

I noticed them right away; she was seductively leaning against the pole and he was watching her with lust and sparkles mixed in his eyes. He grabbed her waist, pulled her towards him and kissed her passionately. They made me feel quite uncomfortable and I turned my head away, desperately trying not to watch them but they were standing right in front of me and I could still see them. They didn’t mind people watching them though. They only had eyes for each other as if they were alone on the bus, smiling, whispering into each others ears and kissing.

I bet their morning wasn’t somber and I’m sure they didn’t notice the ominous dark clouds gathering above the city.