Describe your day by measuring your fluids in it:

I wake up. My nose is running, a little spring of water from a fountain. My eyes are teary from the morning light. Emma starts getting ready for the day. I snooze my alarm. Five more minutes.

I hear hot water running in the sink. I crawl from under my blanket and splash water on my face. My eyes are finally opened up enough to see the world around me.

The stairs are slippery from morning dew, and I feel a raindrop slop onto my nose. The way from our lucky Cottage Number 13 to the main building of the Dilijan Hotel. Humid, misty, fresh air wakes me up a little.

A glass of orange juice for breakfast. If I’m too cold, tea.

Water on the table, in an elegant, fragile glass. Each time I speak up during the discussion, I’m afraid my voice will tip the glass over, off the table and onto the floor. Each time I move my pen when I’m writing, I see the ripples crash into the glass. As I see this tiny movement in the ocean of my drink, I realize that my words, my writing have power. My opinion is a dropped stone into a still puddle.

Water in my text. Russian university students often joke that water is a crucial component of not only  their bodies, but also their essays. This water is unnecessary text that expands the length of a paper, making it seem more official and better-researched. I try to keep my essays “dry,” and guide this water away from my text, my blue pen crossing out words with long lines – these lines form my seacoast defense wall.

It’s lunch time. With a heavy serving spoon, I pour my soup into a bowl. Sometimes it’s my favourite pumpkin soup. Other times, it is borsh, or vegetable soup. This time of busy clatter of silverware on plates markes one of the most intensive, interesting times of cross-cultural communication during Write in Armenia. It is over food and a misinforming label calling борщ “Russian Soup” that I learn that it actually originated in Poland and Ukraine, not Russia. It is during the lunches here that I learn about the struggles, but also perks of being vegetarian and vegan in different countries. As I sip on my soup, I listen and ask questions. Write In Armenia team connects, and we all learn.

In between sessions, we go exploring. Aghstev river serves as our guide. One day, it takes up on a field trip to a United World College Dilijan here. Another day she leads us to the center of the town, to a Geological Museum and Art Gallery. Yesterday, she showed us the World War II Memorial, and then guided us back home.

Each day I promise to myself I will conclude it by being fully surrounded by water- floating in our hotel’s swimming pool. That hasn’t happened yet – I was too busy writing my blog posts(and, just maybe, procrastinating). So maybe tomorrow- on our last day. Hopefully, tomorrow.

For now, my day concludes with avoiding puddles as I’m walking home, drinking tea with my wonderful roommates, and taking a shower.

Time is a wanderer. Time is an  infinite number of seconds. Time is an infinite number of water drops. Taken as one, the drop is  wrongly perceived as fragile and weak. But together, the drops create something majestic. The drops create rivers. Rivers of free water, flowing forcefully forward.  Rivers of time. This fierce flow of water has guided me for my whole life. It lead me to my first book I read and my first essay I wrote. It lead me here, to meet the Young Writers of Armenia. I am so grateful… but I also can’t help but wonder: what will tomorrow look like, measured in liquid?

I only know one thing for sure:

I’ll whisper “Good morning” to Emma.

Teary eyes.

Running nose.