Living the fiction without fast forward or protecting past...

Soms vraag ik me af of personen op internet wel bestaan. Of ze fictief zijn, niet meer dan een profiel, een gephotoshopte foto met zogenaamd elementen die een mens uniek maken. Alsof het personages zijn in een boek dat je las, en je je bedrogen voelt als je het boek dichtslaat en je even zo verbonden voelde met levens die helemaal niet bestaan. Je hebt in hun gedachten gezeten, je bevriend gevoeld zonder dat je zelf in hun verhaal betrokken was. En opeens besef je dat je voor hen al even onbestaand bent geweest als zij zelf waren voor de werkelijkheid... En je voelt hoe onzichtbaar je bent. Het is als spreken tegen een antwoordapparaat, een chat tegen een offline-chatter die nooit echt weer online komt.

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Sometimes I wonder if people on the internet really exist. If they are fiction, nothing more than profile, a photoshoped picture with so-called elements that make a person 'unique'. As if they are characters in a novel that you read, and you feel decepted when you close the book. You felt so connected with lives that didn't exist at all. You were living 'their' thoughts, you felt befriended without even having been a part of their story. And suddenly you realize that you were equally non-existant for them as they were for reality... And you feel how invisible you are. It is like talking to a voicemail, an instant messaging chat to an offline-chatter that never ever really reappears online again.

Too long, too quiet...

More than one month passed. I am still alive. If I was a pool, you could diagnose me with a drying out-disease. I drink liters of soymilk though, but my thirst is not easy too satisfy. There were things to discover last month. I feel as if I play the game 'find the 7 errors'. Did I find all of them or are there still black holes hiding within the framework of my life? Some people hate me for what they think I am and some love me for what I think I am not. In the end you die with empty hands anyway.

Life of a tiran. I have been writing a lot this week: letters (especially to myself), papers about Shakespeare's Richards the Third. No books, no substantial things, I am even desperately behind in blogposts for Think About It. I am motivated. I want to change the world, spread the call for change, build peace as ISFIT thought me. But conflicts appear around every corner. I see conspiracy in the footsteps of silence, read corruption in the curtains. And unfairness... I have been seeing it all my life, but it strikes me more with every bloody confrontation. Dead animal bodies everywhere, devoured by mouths that preach peace... it makes me sick, drives me mad, sad, crazy...

I saw you, that makes life better, real, more inspiring, gives sense, maybe even something to live for. A life to live in the wish that I can make you feel the same way... some day.

First memories of loneliness

Vote for my blogposts in the European Bloggin Competition --> http://www.thinkaboutit.eu/author/veerlevrindts/
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Some people say it's easy to measure one's luck. Count one's friends, test one's health, rate one's smile, evaluate the probablity of one's dreams coming true, minus the losses and goodbyes, multiply all by the love given and received and standardize the result to a comparable z-score.

Statistics just don't work for luck. It can change in one eyeblink, you can forget to take it with you when you leave a place and not manage to find it back at another place. I wish it could be send, by post, email, phone calls or even in chat messages . But luck is difficult to transfer, it slips away when you lose the grip.

Luck is the Golden Snitch in Harry Potter's Quidditch-games.
Only, I don't seem able to get myself a broom to practice ...

European Blogging Competition Th!nk About It

Maybe I am not that active here, but feel free to visit my competition blog for the Th!nk About It contest.

http://www.thinkaboutit.eu/author/veerlevrindts/

I would be very happy if you could vote for my posts by choosing 5 stars under each blog post :)

Thanks in advance,
A new post is coming soon...

Veerle

Romance, or "the greatest thing you ever learn..."

Almost Valentine,



I wanted to be so much more for you
offer my life on a golden plate
and serve you sparkling eyes and sunset skies
tickle you with caresses
of the butterflies in my voice

I wish I was your Sunday morning miracle
waking up with warred locks
unravel unspoken tenderness
be the sweet note in your pocket
the secret gift you find at a lonely afternoon

I wanted to be your angel
your creativity and cliché
maybe your inspiration (even though that would have been too ambitious)
your smile, your flashing light house...
when the world pushes you down

I wanted to be so much more for you
I wanted to be your poetry
but what you get is bad prose
and maybe you will even manage
to see ‘me’ shivering between the lines

Bloggerdebloggerdeblog

I give up... I am definitely not a resolution person, even though I make them every new year. I don't stick to strategies, so it's easy to tackle me. Please don't try, it hurts. While my body is resting on the smooth surface of a Brussels' Opera Hotel bed, my mind wonders what I am actually doing here. A seminar called 'blogging about the European Parliament Elections 2009"? Some people I met tonight seem to take the competition seriously, "better a tough competition than no competition at all". Do they really crave that I-Phone?

I feel I should be honest. No sir, I don't know anything about politics. Yes, I know Obama is the new USA-president and that the Belgian first minister is switched recently. I know the war between Israel and Palestine is one of unequality and horrible killings. They stopped the mass murder, but it is not over at all. I support the Palestinian victims and their families, but at the same time I remember Lital, Michal and the other Israeli people I met last summer. They become fan of 'their war against terrorism" on Facebook. I feel an alien in this world. I just don't understand. I feel I arrived in this world just a little bit too late, so I missed the basic instructions at the beginning. What I want is reading their minds, trying to understand the way they see the world. They. The people. The others. That is what I actually always would like to do. If I would move, I would move to other peoples heads.

People are so different and, in my opinion, very difficult beings. Everybody wants to be loved and liked. Everybody wants to make the world a better place. Nobody wants to get terrible diseases or become victim of natural disasters. But at the same time the same people still smoke in public places (even in the cafe Chez Bernard tonight), still take the airplane for short distances, still eat meat unless the bad consequences for environment, humanity, animal kingdom and the general case of empathy, people still prefer the car over public transportation, still pay more taxes for militarian than for humanitarian action, still write long blogs without really saying something new and still want to catch that brand new cellphone.. even if they already have a well-functioning one in their pocket...

Think about it...

Te ver dus...

Disco is not what it was in my head. I forgot about the smoke, the danger of burning sigarettes, the curling bodies in extasis of false 'joy'. Look! We are drunk and have fun! Tomorrow on facebook! Tag me, please! Show me I'm alive, I was there...

Can't you just be happy for a moment?

Daens and the sledding

Ok, I changed my resolution. Let's write on an average of every two days. That still makes 182 entries a year. They can be as short as today.

A weekend of not-studying and quality-time in the snow (as long as it lasts). It felt nostalgic, sliding down the Mariaberg in Zutendaal surrounded by happy kids and their moms, dads, grandparents. We felt like little children again. It can be so relieving, just some moments without doubts. Just a sledge to take control of. We landed in the bushes anyway, covered in snow.

Yesterday Pieter and I got a free ticket to Daens, the musical. Breath-taking and goose-bumping. I can still sing all the songs in my head. Even though I know the story since I was a child and even based my first book on it, it still takes me away to the Flanders of 1888, the revolt of Socialism, the fight against child labour and injustice.

I really want to enter the NOHA-programme... Action's needed!

Green lunchbox

Daily writing doesn't seem to be my thing. I didn't evenmanage to put some words online yesterday. Life's a mess, my mind confused. It's friday again... 4 oclock. My bus is leaving in 45 minutes.

The world is dangerous, radio-active, poisonous and most of all a deadly, but extremely deadly illusion. My portable telephone is ten times as radiating as my cellphone, he says. There are so many things we should have been warned about before. But everything in life doesn't come with manuals, instructions, step-to-step solutions, explanations... there's no protection at all... And nobody even cares.

I should write interviews. This morning I wrote one between 8:30 and 9:30 while having breakfast, morning talks with the last traces of sleep blocking my sight. I should write a letter to myself. Seeing things clearer. Other should do that to. But I don't try to force my good advice on other people, before listening. That's not the role of an interviewer, remember? No protest, no good advice, no ego-illumination of the interviewer, ... at least not during the interview. Once writing you can celebrate the pearls of your creativity, put yourself in some else's story. Mikyung, my sweet friend from Korea, once made me realize that every sentence, every word written has been thought by the writer. That everything written really passed the neurons of a particular person's brain, that they are born there and then re-experienced by the reader. I thought it was wonderful. Obvious, of course. But nevertheless wonderful. I want to travel around, interviewing people all the time. I love talking to others, hearing their stories, even experiencing them, but I lack time to write down the words that touched me, the storylines which could learn me something for the future, the message of sentences between the lines of bodylanguage. It would be a dream to live of writing down the things I want to remember, so it can be remembered for me and shared. Dela.

I will apply for a freelance journalist job. I will. Even though I don't have time at all...