I woke up to a phone call from my mom.

– Kosma, could you check flights to Toulouse for me?

Yup. The world never slows down, even when you do.

I’m recovering from the flu; give or take three or four more days and I’ll be up and running once again. I had an idea in my head that the life slows down in October; of course, the world proved me wrong. I’ve been ill for two weeks and I’m missing out on so much fantastic stuff it’s not even funny.

Given I have way too much free time on my hands right now, I’ve been thinking about my life even more. I can’t quite grasp the moment I went from unhappy to happy. It happened in the last 12 months, but when? I have a little photo project on the way which may bring the answer.

I can’t blog in this terrible weather. Too cold. Send help.

PS. Aspirin is candy.

I have a rule concerning blogging: a post has to be finished and published in a single sitting. With an absurdly active brain like mine, the subject matter changes like a kaleidoscope; yesterday’s topics ofter seem nonsense today and saving a post for later inevitably means it’s never going to be finished.

My drafts folder stopped growing once I realized the stuff there is never going to get published simply because it went out of date. I operate on a strict rule now: you start it – you finish it – you publish it.

Or trash it. But never leave work laying around, unresolved.

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The same principle applies to code, probably. Every time so far I used git stash I ended up rewriting the code from scratch later simply because it was easier than trying to figure out which parts of the half-finished contraption still need work and what exactly did I have in mind while writing them.

Another day spent in front of Lightroom, scanning, sorting and editing my old photographs. The process is so arduous it seems never-ending; it’s only the librarian-grade bookkeeping that reassures me I’m actually going to finish this task some day and that I’m indeed making progress.

It’s my way of facing the past. The story of the last three years of my life… I’ve never told it to anyone; at least not the whole of it. I think I’ve made more mistakes than I ever wanted in my life; caused more pain, confusion and tears than I’d ever wish upon anyone. It wasn’t like that all the time – but the joyous days, parties and summers were inevitably intertwined with episodes I’d wish I could save for myself… while at the same time I fucking wish I could just get it all out, in the blue, and lift this shameful emotional baggage off my shoulders once and for all.

Painstakingly tagging arranging the photos and folders in chronological order, a story starts to emerge. What has been a tangled mess is straightening up; periods that were a haze start to emerge in scraps, in snapshots often captured by strangers, snapped on mobile phones and long forgotten. People, places, situations, good and bad times… everything, captured on film, coming back to life a little bit every time I look at the recorded memories.

Perhaps this is why I’m carrying the camera with me all the time.

Another Monday and the same story repeats itself: there’s so much happening in my life I can barely think about just how much is happening. I’ve been patching the memories up from photographs, blog posts, calendars and letters. It’s going to take me some time to really appreciate just how beautiful this summer was.

It’s one of those rare evenings when things seem so perfect I can hardly believe it. There I was, curled up under a warm blanket, drinking ginger tea, the happiest man in the world. And then, browsing the net randomly, I came upon a music store selling rare post rock LPs for bargain prices. I checked the address.

Wrocław. Literally two blocks away from my house.

I’m living a fucking dream.

Then that morning comes when you run out of coffee; when the alarm clock doesn’t ring but you get woken up by the cold anyway. The morning when you turn the heaters half a notch up. The morning when you don’t bother to open the blinds because well… you know it’s raining.

PS. I mentioned the calendar thing at least twice. I honestly believe the Gregorian calendar we’re using is completely out of alignment with anything we live by; it’s moderately useful as a tool but irrelevant for us as humans.

I was born in July. All my life I found something strange about celebrating my birthday: it was hardly a celebration. It took me 26 years to realize it’s not a problem with me, but with the month. July combines several things that, together, are a disaster:

• too much sun & heat
• wild expectations
• being tired; who isn’t in July?
• even more expectations.

This, together, caused the experience to be miserable every single time. Every year I long towards the end of the summer more and more. Not for it to end – that would be foolish – but for the few days where you can already relax after that exhausting summer and the days are still warm enough that you can.

My year starts on September. It’s the moment I shed the summer skin, go back to what’s most important to me, when I regain control over my life after a period of craze. The year, viewed this way, starts with a calm, fruitful period, moves on to the Christmas time and winter, then the tiring and weird spring, and finally the hectic summer which feels like a wild party.

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I could go on like this much longer. Instead, I’ll dust off my old trusty Kindle and try to find a good book on the subject.

PS. I promise not to get existential on my blog too often. ;)