writingbrussels

Travelers of light we are, she is humming to herself. It is a song, but it is also the truth, according to her. They are marching the south-eastern suburbs of Brussels in order to get to the forest that still surrounds the city; despite the roads and quarters that have cut into it. It is 15 of January and wet snow is falling from the sky – the color of old unclean sheets. He is walking beside her silently, his upper body, head and good part of the face are covered in a bright red parka. Impossible to walk briskly in wind and snow and talk at the same time, so she keeps talking to herself. I will clear away the Christmas tree when we get home, finally, it is about the time. And then watch one of the Tarantino films – she got a box of DVD’s from a friend as a present. Walking in cold weather always induces happiness in her, as if there was a powerful substance in the air that shoots directly to her blood; happiness is a warm gum, another song quote. Cold gun, she muses and walks ever swifter. They are both having a day off, though it is Tuesday, not a weekend. Continue reading →