At Long Last

So, I assume that we all have writing blocks. It seems mine has lasted a good three months. In that time, I've managed to try almost anything in terms of adaptation. Sometimes it's frustrating. I hate it that I go to a hardware store and need a new frame for my door but can't figure out how to say frame. I hate it that my dog eats my frame in general. I love it that in Spain everyone says hola, whether they know you or not, whenever you past them. I hate it that I can fall in love with a man from spain and have no idea what that means or where I'm going. I love it that I've fallen in love. I hate it that when I try to communicate something important that seems internally vital to my existence, I cannot figure out that precise word that comes so naturally in my own language. I love it that I carry a dictionary with me at all times.

Life seems to go in ups and downs. Maybe it's taken me 27 years to realize that. Sometimes it seems that everything is perfect, that nothing can break your little bubble, and sometimes it seems that every moment it is possible to explode the tiny little bubble that a three year old made with a plastic tool at a park. I wonder sometimes what it is that controls all of this. I used to think it was me. That I could control every moment, every second, every millimeter of my life. And then I guess I grew up? Or something happened, and I realized that we must go with the flow. And while controlling that flow to a tiny degree, we still have to take the moments that life gives us and create our own bubbles with it.

So, I've come back from the park. I watched a group of children with their plastic tools blowing bubbles. And I caught them. As well as I could. And with this, I suppose that I'm controlling the most I can . . .