Caprese Michelangelo

Fatou Kambull Njie, Reporter

We were detached from the constant race against time, living not just existing. A wave of calm had descended upon the group as the bus pulled us closer to our clockwork lives. I sat, a book in my hands, eyes watching as my surroundings raced by becoming nothing but blurs of color.


The feeling that wraps around you while picking hazelnuts in an open forest in Tuscany cannot be justly described by words. Nor can the bliss of seeing the world as it c

ould be, calm and exciting. Sometimes we are so preoccupied in making a living that we forget to live, to experience life. And so we carry on, unaware that we were even choking until we finally take in a breath free from worry. 

During the night our pens became our swords, and our foes our individual restless creative spirit. We sang along to the gentle drumming of a guitar, sharing parts of ourselves we forgot existed. I remembered as the seventeen of us sat squeezed into the back of a tractor going uphill on our last day. We all clung onto something or someone for dear life, laughing as we went over the hill, music pumping from someone’s phone.

This trip reminded me of what living really is to me. Not sitting all day under fluorescent lighting, but laughing like you are giving your last breath.