The City of Stories
multi-faced, multi-cultured — I don’t know
Glitch, glitch. Glitchity-glitch.
The stubborn, brain-picking vibrations tap into my subconscious as I reach my arm out to switch off the alarm on my phone.
I extend my arm further, tap three times with the tip of my fingers on the smooth green surface of the lamp on my nightstand.
6 am. Wednesday morning. November 2022. The sun still hasn’t come up.
I’ve been in Dublin for roughly two months now, acting as a little tiny ant that’s trying to follow the bread crumbs, hoping to take them to a newly discovered home. Don’t know when, or where. Don’t know how. Someplace, sometime. Somehow.
Lately conversations with people sum up to the questions of how I’m managing my time here, how I am finding the city, the country, how I am doing on my own.
I never know how exactly I should answer. Or what is it that the ears are longing to hear.
Is it about the act of exploring the unknown and not being afraid of it? About being enriched with a foreign culture? About appreciating youth by doing so? About living carefree in a place that seems to offer so much? Growth? Friendships? Love?
In many ways, that is the truth. But not the whole story.
Wholeheartedly feeling the consequences of self-chosen solitude does not always go easy on the mind. Getting lost in the moodiness, gloominess. The dullness, that sometimes is everyday life. Fully experiencing the dreadfulness, the all-absorbed energy by all those miniature inconveniences that seemingly don’t bother, but somehow still add up.
Or maybe I shouldn’t say this. Maybe I don’t have the right to just yet.
The switch occurs on a day like any other. One could say even often.
On the tram, while looking out the window. When entering a strange bookshop. Or attending an event where a writer discusses their newly published works. When walking through a bustling street full of rushing people, guided by the familiar melodies of the ever-so-persistent busker.
It’s when I find it again. Concentrated in a crowd of people that share similar values. Similar views. Overwhelmed by the raw and honest work of artists that move the world through their intellect.
It’s when I feel it again. Gathered in a room of strangers with a common interest. Common purpose. Humbled by the feeling of insignificance. Witnessing the sea of individuals whose creations so seamlessly touch the lives of others.
It’s when I see it again. Scattered among all those self-discovering strangers that showcase their own perplexed faces. Somehow giving comfort. Telling every other person that they never really are alone.
It’s when I’m reminded that it exists. That I haven’t made it up. That it’s real.
That inner tickle that makes me think I can have the answer I’ve been looking for. That sense of capability, opportunity, once being surrounded by those that have already become what I may aspire to be. That one step closer towards finding the key for resolving only some of the mysteries.
But it’s just a tickle. I’m not laughing just yet.
Maybe that’s what they call the art of getting by. The act of running to stand still.
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Mila Mladenov is a postgraduate student currently pursuing a Master of Arts in Public Relations in Dublin, Ireland.
