Well, Belgium really (I'm commuting from a sleepy town across the border called Arlon). I've been out here a week already for training in my new job.
It's been pretty interesting so far but I guess I'm not really feeling the same thrill of exploration that I had experienced in Berlin or even London. Arlon itself is pretty sleepy and Luxembourg seems pretty laid back as well. It pretty much feels like one giant Financial Center.
There are some beautiful sights in Luxembourg and it is a really interesting city but I guess I just don't feel the depth that was there in the larger cities. Maybe it was because there isn't a subway. I do really like subways for some reason, they feel like the underbelly of a city, a circulatory system that feels like if you followed it long enough it would lead to that cities beating dark heart.
Maybe that's it, Luxembourg feels all to happy. I could just be jealous! It doesn't have the plague pits and sterility of London or the Failed Glory of Berlin. It's just Luxembourg, happy with itself and what it's achieving. The smug bastard.
Anyway, part two of my post now. I have sufficient time behind me to discuss something that happened in my writing course. (I documented my experience early in the blog.)
I had just received a rejection letter from a literary agent and I scribbled down a few paragraphs. I was quiet in the class the next day, I felt agitated in my seat. Eventually the time came to share anything we had happened to write during the week. I volunteered my piece.
Well, I let rip. I shared my feelings a little too effectively perhaps, reading out the lines in my epic voice. When I had finished I looked around the table. Everybody was silent. Whether they were silent because I seemed like a lunatic or because they felt something from the piece I guess I'll never know. But it was one of those moments I treasure. Where I felt understood.
What is my angle on this one? How can I ever seek to express the anger and disappointment I feel right now. The boiling sickness in my gut that sloshes about like an undercurrent twelve miles beneath the surface. Stagnant putrid water devoid of life and anything other than itself. How could I dream of committing it to paper. The hate. I hate myself, I hate the world and I despise, those denyers, those road blocks, those dead ends.
I want to fly, I need to. I keep wanting it, more and more. It commands me, my final escape, my flaw in the chain. I dream of it, I taste it, oh I want it. I would give blood, I would give life, I would. And more, for that taste of something. To feel redeemed. To feel purpose again.
I know I am trying to fill a hole. To find something large enough to replace the space of two eyes and a smile. Something impossibly significant and impossible to obtain, as she had been. I know I am weak, and I know I am a fool, but I can not stop and I will not stop. Want is my blood, want is my life, want is my loss to lose.
I got her and I will get this. Whether it will drop me as she had done, like the fickle goddess, I don't care. Each step I take forward is a stab into the neck of whatever it is I rage against, whatever it is that I am here to harm. I am throwing matches against the giant but each singe is glee. Each spark lights up my night.