"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>the return of the pre-pubescent boy

>last year while galavanting around europe, i acquired a lovely sore throat. by the time i hit madrid in the latter half of my vacation, i had completely lost my voice.

my last day in brussels earlier this week, i woke up feeling like i’d given one too many BJs.

i’m popping pills, sucking down the OJ, tonguing throat losenges, and keeping the kleenex within reach. is the constant travelling? the change in climate on my body? retribution for past follies?

nah, i’m a saint.

the morning my throat began its punishment, i rose before the shops had even opened, walked slowly and somberly through the spiralled streets, up crescendoing hills. found the Palais de Justice. sat on the war monument and watched the shadows move across the stones from the best view of the city. i didn’t pay attention to anyone around me, just allowed myself to waterfall into thought.

meandered through the Jardin d’Egmont, watching kids run in circles around the fountain as flower buds trickled into our hair.

lack of sleep dragged my heels across the stone slabs.

found the musées royaux des beaux-arts de belique. found some picassos, some matisses, some dalis, no biggie. but grew elated at the sight of Jacques Louis David’s 1793 infamous masterpiece marat assassiné buried in the dark corners of the lower levels. i studied that piece in high school, and for some reason, it always resonated with me.

the way he holds his feather; the wound just beneath his collarbone; the blood-stained knife; the way his lips and cheeks fall across his face.

i usually reject neo-classicism and baroque art, but the other expressionistic and surrealistic pieces the museum contained of the 20th century felt clumsy and without heart. lacking cohesion, vision, or originality.

i walked out of the museum, fatigue-fighting, joy-searching. sat on the steps of Mont Des Arts, skipped through Place de l’Albertine; strolled through the Grand Place piazza, ate cherries till my fingers and lips were stained red. zonked out. waiters still tried to out-cock each other around me.

i am a lost continent waiting for someone to draw my map.

the next day i got the fuck outta brussels.

jumped on an early train to luxembourg. kids yelling, posturing teenagers playing hip hop, old men snoring, and me with my headphones on trying to sing along to The Lemonheads. 3 heures plus tard, and i’m suddenly in the most picturesque city where the heavens lean against the earth.

luxembourg is hot. it’s small (only 450,000 people in the entire country) and full of mid-life-crisis survivors. the hostel i’m staying at is huge, but lacks air conditioning or windows that open beyond 3 centimetres.

a sauna to sleep in for 16€ a night.

did a bus tour. walked around snapping photos, bought wine grapes at l’épicerie. visited a free art gallery housed in an underground tunnel. charlie chaplin exhibits and silent movies.

marching bands and symphony orchestras play in the main square. the surrouding restaurant patrons politely applaud as they scarf down their pints and gastric-destroying Tex Mex meals.

the waiters here behave themselves.

the trees and ravines swallow secrets.

roman fortresses from 963 CE still stand, but i cannot anymore.

a big city girl bored in a quiet haven.

i leave for amsterdam on the 16th.

must kill time, must kill time, must kill time

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