This weekend, while cleaning the house after my 'room-mates' left me alone again, I thought that my life was very rich with events. I mean the events that I value, which are small but nice: like little talk, shy smile, some friendly touches and hugs, reading (even a few pages) of a book. I am attentive to those things, because they constitute my life from day to day. That's why when I come home in the evening I feel that morning was ages ago.
And so, if I die tomorrow I won't regret a thing, because my life is full of stuff that I care about.
I also thought that myself from a few years ago was very different from me now and it is fun to think that I knew that person so good. All those dirty secrets, and dreams, and fears, etc.
By the way, I cooked a damn good chicken yesterday. I am not proud of myself, because I have never thought of cooking as something you can have achievements in. Because, well, this is food and there is so much technology today that you can't really fail it. But thanks to my mum for the receipt.
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