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The London Tube is the amalgamation of all the kind of behaviours people can demonstrate – now place it at rush hour and you can see the best and worst of people. The perfect wide lens to see those who see themselves as the centre of the universe by which we should all obey. People who push you, people who block you going out because they really don’t care if you’re going to work or not, people who decide to smash everyone in because they can’t wait literally 2 minutes for the next train, smacking your face with their handbags and backpacks and big headphones. Individuals who try to take over everyone at no matter what cost – blocking, pulling, pushing – just to take that lonely empty seat that will take them to the next station. People who look at you with pity, others with some sort of hate, measuring you up and down as down and up. Women are the worst to other women as if every member of the female sex was a possible opponent or a measuring and comparing scale. Those people see themselves as more intelligent than anyone else on the tube line, as if their will should command everyone else’s behaviours.

In a society with intrinsic subconscious rules where people get drunk to their faces twice a week to let it all out, these people are in the end trying to do all this in a kind of indirect shadow, breaking all the rules of common sense and respect towards others, who just like them, are simply trying to get to where they need to. This should be a daily service information.

It Wasn’t Me, And Still Isn’t

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Find escape in whatever you can touch. That absence around is gripping.
The randomness and fairness in which things finish, when you can no longer touch what you once hold; thought held. The indifference from whom once differentiated you out of the crowd. The pushing back from whom once pulled you closer. The cold handed drowning of feelings from whom waited so patiently to fish them out.
Incomprehensible how one who seemed to be a single piece, is but another Lego in a specular basic man colour schemed montage of stereotype and idealist ignorant of the long-term future. Once feelings of dumbness for the discharge are becoming an understanding of how the army is missing in fight and strategic qualities from the lack of that thin, female soldier. The researcher who in his deep study to hunt became more focused on the catching than on the prey.

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There is always someone, someone who once was an integral part of your life, who thinks that by being polite will create a whole story around it, that it might mean something…it only means respect. Respect for someone who gave space in themselves for you to come in and be an integral part of their lives. It’s not something they should avoid, but be thankful for. How cannot someone understand that past, present or future, those are the people who create his or her growth? Everyone who crosses paths with you, being it a lover or a friend, will always shape you, make you change, add something to you, even if you refuse to accept that being strong doesn’t mean you can’t change for or with someone. I think one should find the pleasure and respect within oneself to accept and acknowledge that you are or were part of their lives. You were that important and they were that important. The rudeness in dealing with your existence will only make you wonder, and feel, why you opened your heart and your space and gave your thoughts to someone who isn’t strong enough to accept how, no matter how brief, important you might have been.

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Recipe: Poached Egg on Avocado Toast

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After such a long time and having spent so long away from blogging I have diced to get back in the game by posting a recipe, After so many avocado toasts all over London, my fav being Barber and Parlour’s, and spending at least £7 on average, I decided to have a go on making one myself – and turns out, the solid ingredients alone have cost £1. Quite a deal!

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Maybe the bread is not as nice, given how expensive a really decent bread would be in London, but I believe it would make a hell of a bit difference.

1 slice of bread (leave the crusts, they’re the best crunchier part!)

1 egg (or two)

1 small avocado

dried chilli

lemon

salt and black pepper

1 tablespoon olive oil

vinegar

Halve the avocado in two, remove the core and peel it. Slice it in wedges.  In a small frying pan add 1 tablespoon of olive oil, when hot, add the avocado, chilli, and lemon juice. Season with some black pepper and tiny pinch of salt. Sauté it until all the flavours have incorporated, but not to much. The avocado is not supposed to get too mushy. Turn it off.

Toast one slice of bread until brown.

In a pan, bring water with a splash of vinegar and a pinch of salt to a boil, lower it to a simmer and break an egg inside. Let it poach for about 3 minutes – we want the yolk to be runny.

On a place, place the toast, then the avocado mixture, and place the poached egg on top. Drizzle with some more olive oil and black pepper.

Done!

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If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 
But make allowance for their doubting too: 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, 
Or being hated don't give way to hating, 
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; 
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim, 
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
 
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken 
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 
And lose, and start again at your beginnings, 
And never breathe a word about your loss: 
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 
To serve your turn long after they are gone, 
And so hold on when there is nothing in you 
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 
If all men count with you, but none too much: 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, 
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, 
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! 

- Rudyard Kipling

How are you?

“How are you?” that diligent question asked by so many people who don’t actually care if you’re over the moon or down the drain. For a moment you feel that question might actually mean some consideration or attention of sorts towards yourself, but it’s nothing but politeness. Truth is if you reply saying you feel bad they probably won’t care or freak out or pretend they haven’t heard it. If you say you’re “okay” then you’ll be ignored because it doesn’t mean you’re great either and going into it demands a lot of patience and courage – courage for listening to someone’s okay-ness which, whether regarding them or not, makes them feel sort of uncomfortable. If you say you’re great they might either be resentful because they’re not feeling the same way you do and don’t really want to see on someone else or because they’re not a part of it and it hurts their ego – Ah and they might think you’re lying, which, let’s face it, can be quite true. So…next time you feel like asking “how are you?” just ” because” choose rather an infantile/man-child “wassup?”, no one takes it seriously and it’s much more effective. 

Good memories

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They say bad memories make us feel bad. I disagree. Bad memories make us grow and develop, they become less bad and take over a completely new function in our lives. They start disappearing slowly until they become a little fraction of how bad they were. In a sense they start getting selected to go into our rubbish bins by our brains. Now good memories are the ones that hurt, not by themselves but by not being there anymore. Their absence and their pastness are the things that make us be awake at night and get stuck longing for them to come back and repeat themselves – and in the knowing they won’t, it hurts. Good memories always carry that risk: people, places, feelings, conversations, discoveries…it’s endless the amount of things we can long for. I would call them “saudade” which is not entirely a bad feeling or a good feeling, but a painful feeling nonetheless. A nostalgia for what was and no longer is, for what could have been but isn’t, for who we were but aren’t, and who we could have become and didn’t manage to be – I would say it’s an emptiness mixed with a longing for hope knowing of its hopelessness.

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