I've been going to classes for over three months now. Every Tuesday and Thursday, my bag is slightly heavier than usual with the addition of my huge notebook for taking notes that are naturally in an disorderly fashion, abstract for my misunderstanding in the future.
My notebook is as bad as my mind is with names. I am the ultimate snob for usually forgetting everyone i see if they didn't make an impact like a branding stamp would sear on to a cow. i have my notes in such a random dismantled order i dare not help anyone with them lest i am guarantying their failure. Regardless, almost everyday, i sit on the desk i have secretly written my name on, at the back of la clase.
Why español?
That is the question. Well besides the small fact that a staggering 392 million people in the world speak it, there is something about the way Spanish words rrroll off the tongue, the gentle way you bite on your tongue when you spit out those foreign c's, topped with the sweet s's that envelope la palabras to a perfect 'T'.
español is like the perfect woman, mi tipo de mujer. She is passionate and gentle, mysterious in how she presents herself and yet undeniably fascinating. She is witty and complex enveloped with an easy understanding and a loyal catch when you have her.
But in this moment, for me, espanol is a breathe of fresh air, my getaway car from reality. In that hour and half, i am in a world of dreams and new things. I am among crazy dreamers that love fantasising about the European oceans that run endless towards the African shores. They fantasise about salsa and the men and maybe women who will sweep them away with "hips that don't lie", men and women that speak this love language. All this is headed by una profesora whom brings to life simple moments and daydreams to a temporary reality.
. . . . pero solo en la clase loca.
My notebook is as bad as my mind is with names. I am the ultimate snob for usually forgetting everyone i see if they didn't make an impact like a branding stamp would sear on to a cow. i have my notes in such a random dismantled order i dare not help anyone with them lest i am guarantying their failure. Regardless, almost everyday, i sit on the desk i have secretly written my name on, at the back of la clase.
Why español?
That is the question. Well besides the small fact that a staggering 392 million people in the world speak it, there is something about the way Spanish words rrroll off the tongue, the gentle way you bite on your tongue when you spit out those foreign c's, topped with the sweet s's that envelope la palabras to a perfect 'T'.
español is like the perfect woman, mi tipo de mujer. She is passionate and gentle, mysterious in how she presents herself and yet undeniably fascinating. She is witty and complex enveloped with an easy understanding and a loyal catch when you have her.
But in this moment, for me, espanol is a breathe of fresh air, my getaway car from reality. In that hour and half, i am in a world of dreams and new things. I am among crazy dreamers that love fantasising about the European oceans that run endless towards the African shores. They fantasise about salsa and the men and maybe women who will sweep them away with "hips that don't lie", men and women that speak this love language. All this is headed by una profesora whom brings to life simple moments and daydreams to a temporary reality.
. . . . pero solo en la clase loca.
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