Koln is resilient, peaceful and in transit. Of delayed trains
and cold mornings. Only the locks of the bridge look sad. They
remind me of my first trip here years ago and the hope of locked
love, of the first photos into a new land.
Bruges is the city of an old painter who airbrushes cloudy
like figure on fake canvases. It's the labyrinth of the family
life. It's the place where my friends carry a one and a half year
old not knowing how blessed they are. It's the city of his dimples
and his train toys.
Dusseldorf is the home of light and darkness, of beating heart
and of firecrackers that pop your heart out. It's a corridor city.
It's R., it's Lisa, it's furniture building, novels, silence,
sneezes, movies, small slippery couches.
Bruxelles is the city of inner circles, of family meals, of
quinoa soup, of La Pain Quotidian and chocolate cakes, of far away
lands and warmth of briefly met people from the other side of the
Earth.
Dusseldorf is the city of a pink bike, of returning packages, of hopes and fears, of strings of light.
I feel very little but found inside the strength of facing my fears and to stand for myself I wasn't sure I have. And it sparkled as gemy green as the stone of the troll's belly.
Upon returning my steps, my numbing glares, my sobbs, my
awakening feelings weren't counted.
"Oh, dear you are not ugly, society is."
Winter hit the country hard and bitter with temperatures going
down to -17. Degrees were counted.
Z. grabbed me by the wrist in that mundane, webby way that I
loathe.
