And who doesn't like another chance?

Dear future hubster,

before the eternal summer took over and I lost all my remaining sense of time (never had much of it to begin with), I used to get excited about things returning to normal in September even long years after I'd finished school. 

With the new school year, weather would become forgiving, the colours would burst into reds and ambers and fiery oranges, people I care about would return tanned, rested, energetic. It has always been a time of getting back, of "I've missed you!"-s and "I have so much to tell you!"-s.

It has always been, and in my head it still is, a time for a clean start. Last year's mistakes are left behind, and we are given a new chance to learn, to improve, to make brand new mistakes.

Where all the things meet

Dear future hubster,

I'm afraid I'm developing a twisted, with-or-without-you love affair with (my corner of) Africa.

A love story we both know to be doomed from the beginning. One that we both know can't go on for much longer, let alone forever. One that we, I, am nonetheless unable to quit just yet.

Because even though the everydays tire and annoy me sometimes, there are moments when the beauty of it just hits me, intensely as the green of the Rwandan hills, and leaves me with an over-exaggerated, deep longing, a bundle of feelings I'm not ready to give up.

In those moments of madness, I try to remind myself that I'm looking at this unreal affair, that has grown on me slowly and sneakily, from inside an air-conditioned car, where „You Are So Beautiful” and „You Light Up My Life” play. That I'm excited about coming home because I've been away, and there is nowehere else I belong right now. That it's always easier to stay with what has become familiar than it is to move on to the overwhelmingly unknown.

This surreal relationship is also borderline abusive, in the sense that sometimes I feel guilty for wanting to leave at some point, for knowing I will leave. I feel guilty beause it is not enough, because I think I am not trying hard enough; no matter how well I know that leaving will be the only way for me to go on.

And even though I know I haven't been this happy, this aware of being happy for quite a while, I somehow also know that my feelings are this intense because I haven't been this aware of something eventually, but inevitably, coming to an end either.

It is beautifully painful, and let's be honest, dear future hubster: we both know I love bittersweet.

I

Still don't have a selfie stick

Dear future hubster,
Have you thought about the evolution of people taking pictures (of people taking pictures)?
First, there was the urge of documenting the moment. If you were the one doing so, you wanted to make sure that the moment looks absolutely wonderful. If somebody else was doing it for you, it was crucial that you look absolutely wonderful in the moment.
Now we have moved on to the need of documenting our presence in the moment, absolutely wonderful all around.
When was the last time you didn't feel the need to do any of this, but just try _living_ the moment?
Hint: it's not easy. But the self-help book in me says it's probably worth it.

And so does the show

Dear future hubster,

whenever we are facing a situation of loss, or simply a change we don't like but we don't get to choose, please, please don't give me the "life goes on" routine that is somehow always accompanied with a dark look that implies "... although I don't know what for".

The fact that life goes on should always be stated with joy, and a hint of hope. Going on is the best thing life can do!  

Because you know what else life does? It passes. And the next thing you know you're dead. (Not trying to be dramatic here or anything.)

So as long as it goes on and we're still here, there is a reason to celebrate. Bring out the wigs now.

Where your book begins

Dear future hubster,

when asked about your motivations, you need to consider the people. Fear, faith, dreams, and people.

People who believe in you and whom you don't want to disappoint. People who need you (I'm a big champion at that, going the extra mile because somebody needs me to).

But also people who don't believe in you. People you want to prove wrong, who try putting you down, who make you question whether you can actually do it. They ignite the famous „watch me” reaction, and that, dear future hubster, often makes you do great things.

The there are those you admire, those you look up to. Their mere existence is inspirational, but it goes further. You want to grow, to be better at who and what you are, because you want to be good enough for them. (Ironically enough, you probably have always been good enough for them, but that's a whole different story.)

And then, my favourite group: those who don't really care. They are motivational, and you know why? Because you can change that! You can turn their "whatever" to "why not", to "fine". Sometimes, yes, it will become a "no way in hell", but that's still better than the original "meh". 

Oh I love me some indifferent people. They are a goldmine of possibilities. And that, dear future hubster, is what really is motivational. To see a pool of unexplored possibilities. 

ICE ICE baby

Dear future hubster,

do you have any idea how awkward it may feel to ask somebody if you can put them as your emergency contact person? I mean, if you have to ask, doesn't it defeat the complete idea? Shouldn't my ICE person be the closest thing I have to family, and, by definition, know who they are? 

Also, can I please have your contact details and be done with it, once and for all? ;)

That's dedication!

Dear future husbter,
you don't know just how far you can go until you've made béchamel with soy milk. To go with your zucchini lasagna.

We call it socially selective

Dear future hubster,

I think I'm officially a closet introvert: I consider my weekend a major achievement not only because of having made it up and then down the mountain, but also, and almost more importantly, because I have spent it with a group of people I hadn't previously known, and was anxious about it only about half the time. I didn't even panic!

I think I kick ass. Or, more accurately, I would, if I could move any part of my body.