The Son Sardina Neighbors Association has reported that the Palma City Council has requested them to return the key to the neighborhood's community center, which they currently manage, within 15 days. They consider this decision a new episode of institutional “persecution” against the space and the neighborhood's associative fabric.

I find remnants in my home of things that are half-finished. Small daily failures. The leggings and the running top that have been hanging in the bathroom for two weeks, optimistic. The vinegar and the rice paper wrappers I bought at the Japanese week at Lidl, convinced I would make Goi Cuon, fresh Vietnamese rolls. The three books started on the bedside table. The analog camera that I proposed to myself – once a month – to learn to use once and for all. A table, which was more than a table, it was an investment to do a lot of work on and earn a lot of money. Versions of myself that I can't decide on. I want to be all of them at once out of cowardice, because I don't believe enough in any of them.

The community organizations of Son Sardina have called for another day of protest this Saturday, March 28th, in Can Banya Square to demand the creation of a public square and community center, managed by the people, on the site known as Can Pesquet. This initiative is part of the campaign "Public Square and Community Center in Can Pesquet, Managed by the People," launched this month by the Son Sardina and La Garriga People's Assembly and the Son Sardina Residents' Association, with the support of other local organizations. This latest mobilization continues a long-standing demand from the neighborhood, which has been calling for public spaces for community gatherings and organizing for years. According to the organizers, the lack of facilities particularly hinders the activities of groups that promote local culture, the festive calendar, and the defense of social and labor interests.

My friends don't know this, but sometimes I have an internal competition to see who has the better relationship. It's my secret vice, frivolously analyzing where my boyfriend and I are better and where we're worse, compared to everyone else. I'd like to say it's my way of taking the pulse of my relationship, of knowing what works and what doesn'tAlthough it really seems more like a reflex, an involuntary tic driven by the need for immediate gratification. A form of entertainment. And I'm sure we're not alone. Comparing ourselves is one of the things that makes us most human. Nothing makes us as fragile and rational as believing ourselves to be better or worse than someone else. We constitute ourselves in this exercise, in relation to others. Otherness ultimately defines us. That's why we need to understand it thoroughly.

I'm saying goodbye to my twenties and beginning my thirties. In a couple of days, I'm supposed to enter true adulthood, although—for all practical purposes—the only change I'm going to experience is the immediate loss of all my Carnet Jove discounts. I've been assuming we're 30-year-olds for so long—that's what happens when you turn 30 at the end of September—that I don't feel like I'm entering this decade, but rather rushing in, lifting a weight off my shoulders, as if it were already late. Until now, I felt in limbo: there were no longer any justifications for doing certain things, because I was already 29 (going out partying on a random weekday, for example); but also certain other things, because I was still 29 (deciding to stay in on a Saturday night, for example). Twenty-nine is like honey and sugar, like a free year's subscription to your twenties, that is, without any benefits. Or like a sabbatical year, one of those people take to reflect before making a decision. It's just that 30 doesn't happen for you (although there are those who, voluntarily or involuntarily, end up stuck in their twenties forever). Thirty arrives, period.

One of the moments I've felt most desperately vulnerable was during a relationship drama. And not just because of the drama itself—which was good to handle—but because a friend had found out about everything firsthand. It's not that I couldn't hide it from her, but I just couldn't tell her my way, omitting the details that made me most uncomfortable. I felt naked, unprotected, out in the open. How could it be that what made me feel most in danger about the whole situation was the fact that my friend knew what had happened?