Tied up like Cupid

It is urgently time to write my story.

I’m studying at the film academy. Screenwriting, because I love cinematic stories, and I prefer to write them myself. My friends are better with images behind the camera, I with images on paper. I’m in my hundredth year, at least it feels that way. It is as if time has no hold here, and I am forever locked in an endless course of writing lessons and pale encounters.

I sit here with a bunch of frustrated storytellers, and in the meantime you must make your own way. And you do what you can, with the resources that aren’t there. You have to find those on the street, your best learning curve as a writer. Meanwhile, I gasp and long for love, because at night in my room I feel absent, as if no one would notice me if I dropped dead.

The streets are crying. It is Brussels. I decide to go out, to wander. I like it, even if I am willingly offered drugs that I refuse just as willingly. It remains a metropolis that is real, no masks, dirty, somewhat clumsy in construction and renovation, but with a masterful history.

I wander around and hope to find them, my muse, my inspiration. The love, the laughter and yearning. For now, it’s just a heavy suppressed craving, like Cupid tied up in a cage watching what isn’t there or maybe never was.

So it’s time to write my story.