"Writing is a form of inner freedom: the freedom to name, to understand, and sometimes to survive."
Brussels is a city that dies on its feet. I have watched it dying for many years now. All that remains is an icy breath wandering among stones that no longer believe in morning. An ancient weariness has settled upon its streets like an everlasting ash, and every dawn resembles the one before, as though time itself had grown too...
Il courait jadis dans les couloirs dorés des saisons claires,
Le cœur rempli de soleils immenses et de matins incendiés,
Parmi les herbes hautes baignées d'une innocence légère,
Comme si rien au monde ne pouvait encore se briser.
Breathe…
As if every breath could cleanse your soul of all the falsehood, heaviness, and emptiness this world has placed upon it.
