Most good writing should start with an attempt to establish the credibility of the speaker. Here, I do the opposite. In the past month, I have gotten lost, been late to class, missed my tram and ran into the train station with seconds to spare. I've locked myself out of my room, forgotten to take out my laundry and started speaking Spanish...to an Italian...in Italy. I've drunk too much at dinner, dressed inappropriately for the weather, and managed to simultaneously under and over pack for every trip I've been on so far. I've scraped my legs, bruised my arms, and I've even managed to lose a very key battle to some pieces of broken glass hidden in the recycling.

In short, I've been kind of a mess this past month. So why is it that I'm having the time of my life?

It's easy to wish for perfection, but sometimes perfection just isn't realistic. Sometimes, the best I can hope for is sanity, and even that seems out of reach. If I've learned anything lately, its that this world is a lot bigger than we give it credit for. If I walked up 1,000 stairs and looked down on all the eye could see, I would still only be getting a fraction of the city that I now call home. There is so much going on that I would be ridiculous to expect it all to go according to plan.

So maybe I don't have a plan, either that or I make it up as I go along. I turn on side streets and try foods whose names I can't even pronounce. Usually, it goes well, but sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it ends up sweaty, bloody, and messy. Sure, there are lessons to be learned, but there is also something noble in appreciating the mess for what it is: noise, mistakes, and chaos.

There is so much freedom in understanding that life is just plain bad sometimes. We want everything to be good, or at least meaningful, at all times. Lately, I've come to realize that it doesn't have to be. I'm in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I would be crazy to expect something redeeming from every single second. That's just too much pressure. What I can expect, even guarantee, though is that for every second I spend staring blankly at a fluent Italian speaker, I will experience roughly 5,000 seconds of breathtaking beauty. For every messy, cringeworthy mistake, I will have one million moments of pure discovery.

There is so much good that I see no real reason to explain away the bad. Call it a learning experience, or a story to tell, but I prefer to see my glass scraped, bloody knuckles as just another part of the journey that is my life. Good or bad, all of the parts fit together just the same. The best thing that I can do is own the mess, and just keep on living.