Blush Pink Flowers

Hellooo everyone and welcome back to #alexjostories! Today Alice and I prepared for you an exciting story. Alice is one of my dear friends, studying also at University of Kent. She is studying Digital Arts, focusing mostly on graphic design. If you want to have a closer look at Alice’s work check out her site: RIGHT HERE! Alice is also media officer for Kent Rag. Some time ago, Alice told me that she used to write, so I asked her: Why wouldn’t you write an article on my blog? So, here it is guys! A freshly pressed story from Alice.

The sweet summer nights. That warm breeze blowing through my hair and softly touching my shoulders, leaving shivers behind. That pink perfume coming from the last surviving petals of the blossomed trees – oh, yes, it’s pink. So sweet and soft, delicate yet strong. And it’s blush pink. So elegant, so beautiful and so, so… summery. No clouds – no stars either, you can barely see them in the city. But stars don’t matter for those who are laughing; for them, they themselves are the stars. They spend their nights dancing, with the breeze blowing those pink petals through their hair. Nights full of joy, nights full of love, nights full of life.




l i g h t


I’ve been trying so hard, for so many years, but summer nights have never felt like home. They’ve never felt safe and sound. I ha­ve been so cheerful, filled with adrenaline and serotonin and all the other happy chemicals for one moment and yet, the next second something was off. Something would make me sick to my stomach. Something wasn’t… me.

I am autumn, constantly finding something I want to get rid of. I cleanse myself every day, I remove the old bad thoughts and habits to make room for improvement, I am warm like the fiery leaves, with a chilly harsh breeze blowing the rotten ones off of my beloved trees that deserve better.

I am spring, constantly growing, desperately seeking to better myself, to make myself fresher and more real. There are wildflowers growing all over me, there are animals and birds who wander through forests; they are curious, they are looking for something they need. They don’t really know what it is, but they are avidly searching, they want to move, to discover, to grow, to… better themselves.

I am not summer.

I can’t be summer for almost 100 days in a row. My vitality is green and raw and grounded. My roots get tangled with peonies’ and oaks’, my wings spread widely, touching every mountain peak and feeling every velvety leaf.



they’d like to be caressed by that



My existence is Kafkaesque through excellence. A superbly grotesque juxtaposition. I am constantly torn between who I am – and whose fault is that? – and who I aspire to become. A few summers ago, when I was younger and knew everything – or at least that’s what I selfishly and naively thought – I enjoyed this.

Now, books, people, lessons, and experiences later, I am trying to stretch my branches out to the sun. I learned not to read Nietzsche because he would be right, but because he is provocative. Life is fuller of mysteries than Magritte’s Horizon, but that shouldn’t scare my nightingales. They can are looking the fear of the unknown in the eyes and explore the skyline.  I am looking my inner Raskolnikov in the eyes, still packed with anguish and dilemmas, and I am telling him ceci n’est pas une réalité and I enjoy a night full of l i g h t. A battle more savage than Picasso’s Guernica. But now I know. I give meaning to my life, I am fearlessly facing my dried up weeds and I have my bees, owls and deer take care of them every autumn.

Seasons have passed over my Cherry Orchard since then, over and over again, and now I am allowing myself more warmth. I am growing my beloved trees some blush pink flowers.

Maybe summer isn’t impossible

after all.

I hope you like it and enjoy it as much as I did! Thank you, Alice, for doing this!

Have a great weekend everyone and I will #seeyousoon!

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