Sepia Toned Memories.

Although words have always come easily to me, I've never considered myself a good writer. Every moving experience comes with the desire to express in words what I'm feeling or seeing. And yet, when it's important the words always fall short. Saying I feel safe in someones arms doesn't convey that feeling and "beautiful" doesn't even begin to describe Florence. If I go on too much or lack eloquence in this blog, it's because I'm afraid I will miss something. I don't want to forget the way I trip on an uneven cobblestone at least once a day, or how the vendors sometimes see that you're American and call you the spice girls. Sylvia Plath said it best: “Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.” I'm making an attempt to record my life in Florence for everyone at home, but also for myself. Even still, I know the written account will never compare to the real deal and when I look back in on my mind on the memories, words will fail.