Bomiso

07/08/2026

This year, I'm celebrating a milestone birthday.

26/07/2026

Today I stepped into the garden after a heavy rain.

Today I stepped into the garden after a heavy rain. The air still carried the scent of wet earth, and the sky seemed determined to do nothing but rain. It had gathered its darkest clouds, which looked as though they still had unfinished stories to tell, and piled them one upon another. Almost every trace of blue had disappeared, leaving the town beneath a grey light that made even the colours seem to whisper. The trees stood waiting, the rooftops still held the last traces of rain, and the sunlight had retreated somewhere behind the scenes, like an actor who had just been told the performance had been cancelled. Meanwhile, life carried on as if nothing had happened. Dinner was being prepared in one house, someone was searching for the TV remote in another, and in one garden, a dog barked for reasons known only to itself. Life hadn't paused for a single moment.
Then, without the slightest warning, the sky changed its mind. It opened just enough to let the sunlight slip through and gild the billions of tiny raindrops still suspended in the air. The droplets scattered that light into colours, revealing a rainbow so vivid it looked as though it had been painted across the rooftops. Above it, there was another one, fainter, almost transparent, like an echo of the first.
I smiled and remembered that when I was a child, the moment someone spotted a rainbow, they would shout so loudly that we'd all come running out of our houses as if Father Christmas himself had just arrived. It didn't matter that we were wearing slippers, that it was still raining, or that our mothers were calling after us to grab a jacket. For a few precious minutes, the rainbow was all that mattered. Of course, we all knew the old legend too: at the end of every rainbow there was a treasure. We believed it so completely that it never occurred to us to wonder why nobody had found it yet. We simply assumed that adults hadn't looked hard enough.
These days, we no longer run after rainbows. We finish what we're doing first, and by the time we finally look up, the sky has already changed the scenery, and the performance has ended without us.
Even though we live in an age where almost everything runs on a schedule, the rainbow politely refuses to. You can't book one for the weekend or ask it to appear above your house tomorrow at exactly four o'clock. It shows up only when rain and sunlight happen to meet, completely indifferent to anyone's calendar. Nature still puts on performances for which it sells no tickets and accepts no reservations.
A rainbow always needs both rain and sunlight to exist. Take away the rain, and all that's left is a clear sky, beautiful, but telling no story. Without the raindrops suspended in the air, the light would simply pass through. Take away the light, and only the clouds remain, magnificent in their own way, but the sky loses one of its greatest surprises. A rainbow depends on two things that, when viewed separately, seem almost at odds with each other, yet together become one of nature's most beautiful spectacles.
We forget that whenever life becomes difficult. Every disappointment, every loss, every shattered plan feels like nothing more than another layer of dark clouds. We stare at the sky of our own lives, trying to guess when the storm will finally pass, never stopping to think that the storm itself may be preparing us for colours we simply cannot see yet. It isn't our brightest days that make us stronger. The things that hurt us remain inside, like those raindrops suspended in the air after the storm. Then, one day, a ray of light reaches them and, suddenly, what once felt like nothing but hardship begins to reflect colours we couldn't possibly have seen at the time. The wound begins to make sense because it has grown into patience, understanding, and kindness.
The rainbow didn't stay for long. I don't believe that was ever its purpose. If it lingered in the sky for hours, we'd probably grow used to it and stop noticing it altogether. It disappears before it can become ordinary, and sometimes that is enough to stop us in our tracks and remind us, if only for a few minutes, that life isn't measured only by the things we've managed to finish, but also by the moments that were worth stopping for.
As the colours slowly began to fade, I found myself thinking once again about the old legend of the treasure at the end of the rainbow. Today, I think the legend was true all along. Only the location is wrong.
The treasure isn't waiting at the end of the rainbow.
It's found in the person who, despite the passing years, the worries, and the endless lists of things still waiting to be done, still takes the time to look up at the sky.
What did the child in you do whenever a rainbow appeared... and what does the adult do today?
— Alina

10/07/2026

It was an ordinary day with people rushing around, traffic, wet asphalt, and a heavy sky pressing down on the whole city.

It was an ordinary day with people rushing around, traffic, wet asphalt, and a heavy sky pressing down on the whole city. The kind of day when I was running on autopilot, lost in my own thoughts, moving through it all without ever looking up.
I was travelling at the breathtaking speed typical of city traffic: three metres forward, brake, another three metres forward. In my head, I was going through a list of things I had to do, a message I still hadn't replied to, and a couple of other worries that had apparently decided they deserved my full attention.
Then I looked up. Somewhere between two glass buildings and a traffic light someone had probably already sworn at, the sky opened for a few moments. Two beams of light were coming down through those heavy clouds, which seemed to have borrowed every shade of grey in existence. The beams were so precise that, for a few seconds, my first thought was extremely mature and perfectly appropriate for my age: the aliens are finally here! “Beam me up, Scotty.”
Two seconds later, I was still stuck in traffic, thinking that a civilisation capable of travelling across galaxies probably had stricter selection criteria.
I snapped the photo and kept staring at the sky. The clouds were heavy and dark, covering almost everything. The light was slipping through a crack between them, and somehow, it was the only thing I could see. The enormous buildings, the cars, the bridge, the entire city had somehow faded into the background. I started thinking about all the cracks I had tried to repair over the years, in my plans, in my relationships, in myself. Anything that felt incomplete had to be fixed, explained, and put back in its proper place. I liked things whole, answers clear, and roads where I could see at least the next few steps ahead. Whenever a crack appeared, I would quickly grab my imaginary toolbox and get to work.
For years, I waited for clear skies in so many areas of my life. I waited for that moment when everything would finally fall into place, the answers would appear, and everything would become clear. I believed peace would arrive when the clouds disappeared.
Looking at this light, I realised that lately, I don't rush to fix every crack I see. I notice it, I get annoyed because I still like having answers, I overthink it from every possible angle, and eventually, I get on with my life. I probably started doing this after I got tired of trying to repair the entire universe in a single lifetime.
Interestingly, some of those cracks let in things I could never have planned for, people I wasn't looking for, ideas that had never crossed my mind, and roads I probably would have avoided if I'd known exactly where they led.
Just like the light in this photo. It doesn't fill the whole sky or chase the clouds away. And yet, it's the first thing you notice. All the weight of those clouds somehow loses against a few rays of light that have found their way through a crack.
What do you do when a crack appears in your plans: do you try to fix it, or do you wait a little to see what might come through?
PS: Scotty, the offer still stands. Preferably outside rush hour. 😊
— Alina

13/06/2026

It is said that a nymph named Clytie fell deeply in love with Apollo, the sun god. Every morning, she would watch him begin his journey across the sky and keep her eyes on him until sunset. Day after day, she remained there, unmoving, her gaze fixed on the light.
Apollo never returned her love, and Clytie was left only with her longing. Over time, she transformed into a flower that continued to follow the sun across the sky. And so, according to the legend, the sunflower was born, a symbol of steadfast love, hope, and the search for light.
I was thinking about this legend recently, and it reminded me of all the sunflower fields I’ve passed over the years, seen only through a car window while my mind was somewhere else. I never stopped, not even for a moment, to truly look at them.
As I thought about it, I had the feeling that those flowers know something I’m still trying to understand. They stand there all summer long in the dust of the road, in the rain, in the wind, and beneath the kind of heat that cracks the earth. Each morning, they turn their faces toward the light and carry on with what they were made to do, without hurry and without fuss.
Meanwhile, I spent so much of my life chasing people, goals, plans, achievements, and the day when everything would finally be exactly as I imagined it. I believed that once I reached that place, owned that thing, or lived through that perfect moment, I would finally feel that I was where I was meant to be.
In the meantime, the years passed. Some of the things I was chasing stayed behind. Others disappeared altogether. And through all those changes, the biggest change of all was me.
The most peaceful moments of my life came when I stopped running. When I paid attention to a sunrise, a butterfly, a field of blooming sunflowers, and a conversation with people who bring light wherever they go.
As I stood there thinking about those fields, it occurred to me that maybe the sunflower was never trying to teach me how to find the light. The light was always there. The difficult part was remembering where to turn.
That is what I see here, too: different stories, different lives, different roads behind us, and still, people are finding their way back to what matters.
— Alina

08/06/2026

Last night, while I was trying to think of what story to share with you today, my eyes drifted towards my shelf of scented candles and essential oils.
You need to understand something: I don’t buy scented candles for the fragrance. I buy them for the woman I imagine I’ll become the moment I light them.
I have candles for relaxation, focus, and “feminine energy”, as though enough vanilla and cinnamon in the air will suddenly align my chakras and organise my entire life into neatly labelled folders. I even have a candle called “Productivity”, sitting right beside the planner I used faithfully for three days before abandoning it. They provide emotional support for one another.
If I ever walk into another home décor shop, I hope they sell a candle for remembering passwords. Honestly, these places take advantage of my emotions. They sell me the illusion that I’m about to become someone who actually knows what she’s doing with her life. And I fall for it every single time.
“Ooh, eucalyptus and inner calm?” Yes. Clearly, that was the missing piece. Not sleep, eucalyptus.
The same goes for essential oils. I think I own enough essential oils to heal the entire neighbourhood energetically. I have one for anxiety, one for sleep, one for mental clarity, and one I bought purely because the woman recommending it on TikTok had flawless skin and looked like she always knew exactly where she'd left her driving licence.
A few evenings ago, I went through a full “getting my life together” ritual. I switched off the lights, lit a vanilla and sandalwood candle, added lavender oil to the diffuser, and put on a focus playlist that I use exclusively when I want to feel organised without actually doing anything organised.
I could already picture myself as one of those women who has her life under control, never sends passive-aggressive messages, and has a healthy relationship with still water. The sort of woman who drinks tea, reads before bed, stretches, journals, cleans her make-up brushes regularly, and doesn’t Google random symptoms at one in the morning.
Meanwhile, I was wandering around the house with a towel wrapped around my head for nearly two hours, looking for the mug of tea that was already in my hand, while trying to log into the website where I buy candles and essential oils so I could order some discounted spiritual growth and a bit more inner peace.
After about ten minutes and seven password reset emails, I started to suspect the universe might be trying to tell me something.
The atmosphere, however, was impeccable. Honestly, if someone had walked into my living room, they would have assumed I meditate regularly, run manifestation workshops, and use phrases like “energetic alignment” without a hint of irony.
The funniest part is that I start believing it too. For about fourteen minutes, I genuinely feel like that calm, organised, emotionally mature woman. Then my phone battery dies, I can't find the charger, I order a takeaway and spend forty minutes watching videos called “How to Completely Transform Your Life in 2026”.
Meanwhile, my living room smells like a wellness retreat in Bali, and I’m still hoping my next candle order will include the instruction manual for being an adult.
P.S. At this rate, if I buy two more candles, a few more oils, and another diffuser, I’ll either achieve emotional healing or open a spa, and I’ll probably end up with more candles than emotional problems.
— Alina

23/05/2026

I’m the kind of person who can project hope, future plans, and a mild existential crisis onto a container of salad.
A few nights ago, I opened the fridge and found my salad shoved all the way in the back, next to a jar of sauce and a dried lemon that has probably been living with me illegally since 2024. Cherry tomatoes, mozzarella, seeds, the whole thing. It looked exactly like every “starting Monday I’ll get my life together” plan I’ve ever made. Like my Sunday night motivation, fully dead by Tuesday.
While standing there under the cold fridge light, staring at it at 11 PM with my hair in a bun that had already become a life decision, I suddenly remembered how excited I’d been when I made it.
I had washed the lettuce carefully, cut the tomatoes nicely, and bought the expensive tiny mozzarella because apparently the woman I want to become eats expensive tiny mozzarella. That night, I had genuinely convinced myself that this was it. Maybe this time I’d actually stick to it. I’d cook more, drink water, keep greens in the fridge, and become the kind of person who has her life under control.
The next day, I ordered a burger.
The day after that, pizza.
By day four, I wasn’t even opening the fridge anymore because I didn’t want the salad judging me.
And that’s when it hit me that I don’t actually buy salad because I like salad. I buy optimistic versions of myself. I do the same thing with planners, scented candles, and workout clothes; I fold them nicely and move them around the room, as if their mere existence is somehow building muscle mass by proximity.
Every single time I buy these things, I believe in that woman for a few minutes. The woman who wakes up early, has a morning routine, drinks water before coffee, keeps fresh basil in the kitchen, and knows when yoghurt expires.
I genuinely love her. She just doesn’t live here.
The woman living here loses her phone while talking on it and still has chia seeds from her last two “new beginnings.”
I threw the salad away with the kind of sigh usually reserved for failed relationships.
For a second, it honestly felt like I was throwing away potential, not lettuce.
— Alina

24/10/2024

Mila si dragostea fata de oameni.