I am.
Here and now.

Inhale.
Exhale.

A soft glow came to wrap its arms around me and filled me with a smooth peaceful and endlessly bright smile. Has it come to take me away? No, not yet.
I am still to endure time upon this Planet, within this body that seems to slowly fight its way through an invisible force.

Life used to flow through me, bringing endless bliss in each day and event that struck me upon my rootless journey. Now I sit in a distanced spot, quite far removed from the flow. How and why, I have no idea. Life seems so distant, so far and away. What is left is anger and frustration. What was before a path laid with bricks of wonder is now a thorny bush that pricks senseless anger out of me each time I attempt to do anything.

Either wallowing in memories of times past or filled with anxiety of what is to come, the shimmer of joy seems to have moved to other lands.

I would like to run away to other worlds but all of it is tainted with the disgust I hold for human trickery and selfishness.
I wish I'd never come here.
Cambridge has tricked me into a corner where I do not wish to be.
It has ripped my sense of freedom from me.

Beauty makes me cry these days.
No more because of its inherent glory.
But because it reminds me of how I cannot feel it anymore.
It's there, visual and present yet out of grasp and only a screen to hide so much dirt and our inability to exist in kindness and honesty. Perhaps all the trust I'd ever held within me has been tricked out of me, ripped from within, leaving its endless source gasping for any trace of it.

Sticking like tar, attachments have started to bog me down, weighing my mind, my body and my soul with the illusion of reality.
Dancing in uncertainty seems as far as the moon.
Certainty has made its home everywhere I look.
Whole societies, relationships, events, work, all of it built upon the certainty that we impose upon the world around ourselves. And that certainty seeks appeasing deep within my mind. That carefree, free, boundless self that burst bliss at each sight has lost its wings and left me with a limp corpse that seeks only the reassurance of the illusion that surrounds its birth.

Beliefs slave my mind into submission, binding it to emotional turmoil.
The magic of each breath has been corrupted.
The ever-so convincing illusion of reality has made me careful
So very careful.
Not full of care, rather full of fear, full of resentment, anger, frustration, pain.

Am I just making it so complicated?
Or is it all those around me?
Egos unwilling to understand the transience of Life, the transience of their existences, the meaninglessness of their lives.
Hate looms beneath the horizon.
I can feel it grow with each bout of frustration, each bout of further despair.

I am.
Here and now.

Inhale.
Exhale.

It is but an illusion - all of it.
Yet it sticks to everything like tar - all of it.

So it's gone.
That powerful never ending pulsation that has kept me going for so many years.
That light that kept me fighting even when my body had had enough and I really just needed a rest.

Perhaps I exhausted it.
Perhaps there is none left.
Perhaps it's gone to never be relight again.

I don't know.

What I do know is that the drive has vanished.
The passion has withered away.
The hope has perished.
The desire to look inwards for endless Life and Light is no more.

I stand at the foot of not a mountain, but a sleek shiny wall with no end in sight, stretching as far as my eyes can carry.
There isn't enough in me to climb it, so I just sit by it and see how little any of it has ever mattered.
The joys and tribulations, the hardship and conquests, the never ending desire to do better, to reach higher, to go further, none of it anything more but in vain.

Perhaps my hopes were too great, my expectations too high.
And here I sit, at the hill of all I may have achieved, the epitome of all my dreams and there is no more Life in me to live.

I am wounded by each word that does not serve kindness deeper than ever before.
My inner self is torn down at each report of injustice as the world turns around business as usual.
The blindness we serve is killing me inside and I yearn no more to run away from it nor fight it for the wall is too high, too strong and too deep for me to handle.
I see but my weakness and inability at making any sort of difference.
I see only my failings at reaching more people.
I see my dreams of change as only an illusion of my ego's drive for self-importance.

Can a body live without Light?
Can I hold on to the Illusion of Joy by clinging on to my memories and shutting out the hopelessness of my present day?
Is there any point in living when I know each movement of mine only feeds a world of misery rather than serves as a sparkle of Love?

I know the great teachings for I have lived them with passion.
But if the desire, the drive, the force needed to carry out discipline upon the lazy mind is no more, even those great teachings are useless.
I can no longer only seek to change myself so that the world around me would change.
The weight of all the misery has crushed the very foundations on which I survive.

"They're all wearing coats and scarves... It must be cold outside..." I said to myself as I watched people come and go, sit down and stand up, get on and get off the train headed to Bruxelles-Midi. It had been a wonderfully warm and sunny afternoon in Luxembourg and I'd happily stuffed my pullover into my backpack, forcing it into the upper compartment of one of the best camera/laptop bags I'd ever had. The bag in question travelled with me across the entire world, in search of sights, ideas, thoughts and breakthroughs, and was now, once more, as a faithful companion, carrying my whole Life within it - my beloved camera, lenses and old laptop that had never yet let me down...

I looked at the girl sitting in front of me in her coat and scarf and decided that I should perhaps get ready to get off, as we were finally about to arrive to Bruxelles-Midi, where, an hour later, I would be embarking upon the second leg of my journey, on my way back to Cambridge. I didn't want to end up having to rescramble with all my luggage and so thought it best to pull out that pullover of mine and dress up a bit warmer.

I looked up, to where the kind man next to me had lifted my backpack many, many stops before. There where I expected to see my black backpack laying about was... nothing.

It had gone.
Vanished.
No more.

A sudden void filled me.
An empty space, as if someone had ripped something from within me and left behind only a gaping hole.

"Oh mon Dieu!" I heard myself exclaim as another person took a hold of me. This person was suddenly awake and aware while my mind raced with who, where, when, how. Disbelief! "C'est pas possible! Mon sac! Ils l'ont pris! Ils m'ont VOLE MON SAC!" I found someone screaming through my mouth. People were looking.
It's all right, it's just a bag with stuff in it. "Non, c'est pas vrai! Ils l'ont pris! Ils m'ont VOLE MA VIE!" my voice carried through the carriage.

The rest of the world fell away. Who bloody cares if everzone stands to look. They stole my LIFE. They stole my memories, those files I have so dearly written, assembled, spent hours working on, those files I was going to sort out and store away as soon as I got back to Cambridge. They stole my camera, that limb of mine that had seen all I had seen and helped me frame it for others to see. They stole my lenses, those precious pieces of glass and metal that had allowed me to shape what I'd seen. They stole my laptop, that friend of mine who'd listened to me whatever mood I was in, that harbour of sanity and recipient of insanity that allowed me to indulge in late night surfing.

My gasps and disbelief turned into certainty and panic.
I'd never see any of it, ever again.
That's it.
Gone.
I started trembling, shaking uncontrollably and my muted screams turned into loud sobbing and soon I was crying my Heart out. The two girls who tried to do something in a situation where there was nothing to do asked me if I would be alright as they needed to get off the train. I just buried my face into my arms and cried, cried and cried...

"C'est bon, il n'y a rien a faire, tout est parti, ils ont tout pris..."

With wet hands, I reached for the phone in my purse and dialled for Paul.
His "Hey babe!" was greeted by cries, with panic and despair.

"Don't worry, they have CCTV on the trains," he tried to reassure me.
And with the most disdain I could gather from the depths of my Soul, I stated, loudly enough for everyone in the carriage to hear, "no, there are no CCTVs in the trains in Belgium! It's hopeless! It's all gone and no one is going to be able to do anything!"

Some minutes later, I walked through Bruxelles-Midi train station sobbing, while searching a police officer. Soon enough, three walked across my path and, shaking and with tears rolling down my cheeks, I asked them to let me declare a theft. I stood there, as they consulted amongst themselves. The police station was closed. I would have to wait until the morning or come back to get an attestation.

The day's last train to the UK was heading out in some 40 minutes and I could feel the void within me growing with each passing minute. I wasn't there anymore. I was simply loss, embodied. As I dialled my father's number, I tried to keep the tears at bay to seem more rational, but as soon as he picked up, I could not help but cry, and cry loud.

It was an instant, just a single moment out of time. A wrong decision filled with doubt, and that's it, all gone. My most faithful companions turned into things to be sold for a quick buck. My most precious tools taken from me to fulfil someone's need to feed greed.
As I came back to my seat from the toilet, I knew something was amiss, but my purse was still there, and my iPod exactly where I'd left it, openly visible on the table. But the men that had been sitting next to me were gone. My big bag was still beneath the seats across. But I didn't look up.

Why didn't I look up?

I sat down and read, listening to my iPod.
But I didn't look up.

Why didn't I look up?

The question came to keep me up and awake that whole night, as I tried to get some sleep in an excessively expensive room right by the train station. The city's hotels were filled to the brim as U2 was in town. I missed my train, of course, as by the time they were done opening up the police station and writing down my statement, the eurostar check in had closed and the doors to the platform were sealed. I pleaded them to let me in, after all there were still 10 minutes left to the departure of the train, but no, no way. I walked back to the now empty seats allocated to those waiting for the opening of the check in, sat down and cried. My eyes were turning into red dots filled with tears.

It's not the monetary value (excessive) of the contents lost that saddened me and still upsets me. It's their absence. These were extended parts of my self. My research, all of the interviews, all of the essays, the files filled with writings, the blog entries waiting to be polished up and posted, the e-mails, all of it parts of me I'd come to live with as with my Heart. The pictures, the contents of the dozens of memory sticks, my beloved, beloved camera and its amazing lenses. Far from simply things bought and used, these were my electronic limbs. While new ones can be bought, the bond will forever be broken with those that accompanied me to the edges of my world.

You may call it commodity fetishism if you will, but these were the only constant in my Life over the past four or five years. People have come and gone, houses changed and shifted, countries visited and then left. And throughout the highs and lows, throughout the hard times as the easy ones, these ageing pieces of hardware had been by my side, enduring everything I threw at them. The anger, the dirt, the sand and the rain. They were with me as I saw things I'd only dreamt of ever seeing. They accompanied me to the top of the world and let me record what I thought of it all. And now someone uncaring and selfish tore them away from me, selling them on for less than they're worth unable to comprehend how deeply they have wounded me.

Selfish. How selfish of me!
They probably seek such goods to sell on to feed their families, their addictions, their cravings, as all our fellow humans do. They are filled with doubt, but also probably certain that I will do just fine without these material goods. Probably thinking I only deserve to lose all of these things that are mere symbols of the inequality that is embedded in our human existence, across our evermore globalized world. Theft, after all, is wherever there is misery. And misery is generated by our inability to share and care, to be compassionate and understanding.

As I called the police station to give them the serial number of the camera, I could not help but hear the uselessness of my gesture, the void into which the set of a dozen numbers was fed. The police is overwhelmed by crime, by theft, by a number of ills pushed upon them by our desire to maintain a front of "all is well in the world". There is no way they are going to do more than just file it away, "feed it into the system" ...

And so I move on, giving myself the space to mourn yet another loss of tools that feed my obsessive desire to record Life as it passes. I look at new computers, new cameras, hoping that the insurance money will cover at least half of these wild prices. I'd been so happy to hold on to my old equipment when everyone else around me was busy throwing their money at the latest craze. I'd stuck to what I knew and held dear while salesmen tried to persuade me to invest in what's best and "much better than those old pieces of electronic junk" ...

But the need to hop onto the consumption wagon again tires me. I don't want to feed the system anymore than I need to. I don't want to give Apple yet another bunch of my money. The company's turning into a monster even worse than Microsoft has ever been. I feel myself trapped by the need to invest into something better than what I'd had before. All the lenses are gone! Why not get a Canon and take film with the same camera you use to shoot? My Heart is squished, clenched, I can't breathe.

My electronic limbs were cut off from me.
I don't want to replace them.
I have more than enough stuff as it is.
WE have more than enough stuff as it is.
Yet we want more, better, faster, bigger, more versatile, something else, anything else than what that dude has. We want to stand out, feed out void need to have what makes us stand out, what gets us recognition, what feeds our madness.

I want to catch him and scream FUCK YOU at him for forcing me to come out of my comfort, from that life spent hording lived moments onto ageing digital supports, from that life spent walking around the planet with my bags like homeless people pushing their carts in big cities - there but not really part of it.

And so I find myself at another fork in Life.
I could just buy the latest stuff, replace the irreplacable, get on with new motherboards, hard drives, flash sticks, the whole lot. Or maybe I could... well, maybe I could just not do any of it. Maybe I could abandon all of it and move on to something totally different.

I'd like to catch him and thank him for the pain he's put me through.
The pain of waking up from my sleep walking, from the comfort I'd buried myself under.

I don't need any of it, really.
All I need is my Health, air to breathe, food to eat, fresh water to drink and dear fellow human beings to share moments with. The rest is mere accessories, the rest is just more.

And we already have too much anyway.

I don't think it's too far from the truth to say that generally people write because they feel they have something worthwhile to say. My problem is that writing is the only way for me to express myself without being afraid of people's reactions.

My days are tainted with self-conscious self regulation, doubts, questions and hesitations. I feel awkward when around people because there is a second me sitting outside of me judging the things I say, how I look, how I behave and what an idiotic waste of energy I am. And usually it is when I attempt to rid myself of that second self that I blurt out the stupidest of thoughts that usually have the opposite of the intended effect.

I'm no good at social interaction, which is why I write.
Not that I have anything worthwhile to say, otherwise I'd probably already be a writer of some sort. I just hide behind a screen and pretend I make sense from time to time, while selfishly fulfilling my need for sharing with an imaginary audience that fail to react like people normally do.

It hit me extra hard today when I was being open about an issue with this counsellor I am momentarily seeing (yes, I'm seeking help - do not fret), telling her about why I feel so awkward, and she asked me: "are you trying to impress me?"

I sat there silently, totally void within, feeling my little self sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, wondering what on earth I am doing wrong. If the person I've been as bluntly open with as possible thinks that I am trying to impress her, there must be something awfully wrong with my communication skills.

What would I even try to impress her with?
My distinct lack of orientation in life?
My inability to seek out suitable partners?
My inefficiency in work-related matters?
My desperately ill-suited attempts at a social life?
My impotence at forging long-term relationships?
My ineptitude with commitments?

... or perhaps my potent use of a digital thesaurus? :D

I was convinced I didn't exist in people's minds for the longest of times. And then someone, sometime when I was still a teen, told me that they'd been talking about me with someone. It shattered that most gorgeous and precious fantasy of mine of being non-existent in people's lives.
Since then, most of my social energy goes into talking only when prompted, and trying to be as forgettable as possible. It sucks when I fail at it. Perhaps why I like to leave my stories unfinished when interrupted.

I don't write because I have something worthwhile to say. I really don't have anything worthwhile to say. I just write because it's the only moment when I feel like I'm communicating without being petrified by your reaction; the only moment when what I have to say remains virtual - removed from human reactions, judgements and implications. A one-way channel that keeps me safe.

I haven't written anything in way too long. I'm used to having this little exit space to get out of my head, but as I have been too busy, I have kept it shut, instead trying to focus on the task at hand.
But as I find my mind flowing back and forth from joy to utter despair and my energy levels drowning below anything healthy, I find myself screaming for a little pause, no matter how rigidly my inner self condemns it.

Somehow I could sense it gloom in the distance already yesterday night, as I went to bed and enjoyed what there was to enjoy of the evening. This morning, waking up before the alarm, I realised that stress has made its way into my unconscious. I don't feel stressed per se - nervous, anxious about the amount of work I need to do - as much as simply tired and left feeling unable to take in any more or put out anything worthy of the energy that has been put into it.

The membrane of my mind seems saturated with all that it has been bombarded with, even though classes started only two weeks ago again. It's a bit as if the break really wasn't one since all I expected was for this degree, the classes, the seminars, the essays, the presentations, the various organisations I have volunteered for, to continue, eventually, sooner or later.

It was like a parenthesis in suspension, only appearing real and thorough, while in reality it was a simple moment out of time spent silently worrying about what is to come while laughing on the surface.

At times, I really enjoy myself.
What am I saying?
Most of the time I really enjoy myself.

Yesterday I even had a chat with Max, one of my fellow hall-mates, about the fact that I wish I was a student for a small eternity so that I could keep doing all the fun things that one could potentially do here. There are so many various kinds of societies, so many activities, centres of interests and interesting people that it seems a true shame that the rest of the world is not like this. Being a student here is like being able to indulge in all of the things one could ever dream of indulging in while attending lectures given by people with amazing experiences and learning to know people from across cultures - all of which might eventually lead to obtaining a little title one may later use to promote one's attendance at Cambridge.

And then, on other days, like today, I wake up knowing something isn't quite right. There was already someone in the shower, so I had to wait for some 15 minutes (or was it more); I thought my 10 am lecture started at 11 and so met my fellow classmates coming out of class just as I was about to rush into class; I forgot half of my notes for the presentation I gave (and hence blabbered on about totally useless things); and then I find myself walking around wondering whether I am a uselessly annoying person who ought better to just shut up rather than try contribute to anything. And to finish it off, there are the four books that still need to be ingested, sitting in front of me, waiting to be stuffed in and then regurgitated from my feeble little, very tired, and utterly drained mind.

It's on days like these that I stand in the shower and plot an escape route from this most amazing place. Perhaps an accident? How about running away?

Yeah, utterly silly thoughts...

Perhaps I should just get back to reading.

It's strange to feel so split up between two places...

I don't want to leave my cosy little room, my little Cambridge cave, my little space filled with my self and my own little mess...
Yet in a few weeks I'll be sad to leave my gorgeous apartment in Luxembourg, sad to leave all that space and the warmth that pours in through the ample windows...

My Heart is happy in both places and always sad to leave both.
Never before have I felt so at home in two places, and so lovingly torn between the different selves both feed within me.

Balls of light, splashes of colour, my hands yearn for the ability to spread paint on a canvas, a support, a white surface, anything. I wish I could splatter all of these things that inhabit me out, about, around.
Put me into a room covered in white.
Give me paint to play with.
Let me express all of that which waits to explode from within me.

Words are like tiny tubes into which only fragments fit, tiny particles of all that which is within, abstract, non-verbal, human, organic, a grunt of inner worlds.

Lines drawn onto a paper, onto a screen, words are but squiggles of symbols, nothing more than etches of the rich worlds that inhabit these thinking vessels that walk about, melting into their surroundings even as they believe they remain eternally separate.

Images are but frozen sections of a melody that exists beyond sound, beyond our comprehension of ourselves. They are but snapshots of a world filled with connotations, hidden messages, communication, meaning, usage, emotions and existence... Even when they convey more than a thousand words ever could, they fail to grasp the depth of this endlessness that inhabits my being.

If I could sink my hands into existence and shape it to show You all of that which is within me, would You see better? Would You pause and listen to all that which we share? Would You open up and hear the sound of the beat that lights us all up? Would You let me reach into You and mix with all of that which You are? Would You let me penetrate You with all of that which I carry within me?

Like fingers sliding into a bag of lentils, I would like to penetrate the pulse that animates existence, that fills all of this space we occupy in the Universe. I would like to grasp it, feel it run between my fingers, wrap itself around these hands of mine, and then feel it spread as I press my hands against the materiality of all that which holds us separate from one another...