All hearts break

I'm only gonna break your heart.

Yesterday I heard Taio Cruz's song "Break your heart" and it got me thinking about the nature of human hearts. Someone once said "Blessed are the hearts that can bend, for they shall never be broken" to which someone else replied "But if there is no breaking, then there can be no healing". As to which of these two statements may be true, I cannot say.

Now listen to me baby

Before I love and leave you

They call me heart breaker

I don't wanna decieve you.

However, it does offer some insight in the way people deal with relationships. Taio wants us to believe that there is no way to evade love, once you're on Cupid's radar, there's no running away from it. But the funny part is that we've always been taught that falling in love means happiness and joy. A wonderful feeling when two human beings connect on a level so much deeper than mere friendship. Moreover, if two people fall in love, what causes them to fall out of love - if that is ever possible?

If you fall for me

I'm not easy to please

I may tear you apart

Told you from the start.

Could it be that breaking hearts are a necessary evil, an inescapable side-effect of love, a sort of condition? Does falling in love inevitably lead to its downfall? If so, why do we persist on loving if all it does is just lead to more pain?

There's not point trying to hide it

No point trying to evade it

I know I got a problem

By doing this behaving.

Perhaps within love's devastation, there lies beauty. Maybe hearts break so that they can become stronger and more adapt to our sometimes hostile relationships with others. After all, the heart is a muscle and like any other it can be trained to become stronger. Instead of tackling it with cardio and benchpresses, we don't need physical pain to stimulate it, but rather emotional.

And I know karma's gonna get me back
 for being so cold

Like a big bad wolf I'm born to be bad
and bad to the bone

If you fall for me I'm only gonna tear you apart

Told ya from the start.

Yet how many times can a heart break before it shatters completely? How many times before it becomes unfixable and unable to open up to anyone else? Is there a specific or limited amount of love for everyone and when used up, that't is for them? Or is love eternal and endless like so many popsongs would like us to believe?

Better living through words

I often wonder what it takes to make one's dreams come true.

Does it mean spending one quarter of our lives in schools, learning other people's words by heart, but never quite learning our own?

Does it mean that we have to make compromises? Choose between two things we love? Giving one up for the sake of the other?

Even if we do all of these things, does it guarantee a happily ever after? Or is it all just make-belief?

And when we finally find our words, that perfect combination of sensibility and introspection, what's to say that's enough? Can it ever really be enough?

Is chasing dreams like trying to reach for the stars?

Or is it the trial and not the error that makes it all worth while?

Can my dreams ever come true?

"When the dust settles, that's when we can start picking up the pieces."

"We're all fools for something: money, career, family, sex, ... Somehow being a fool for life doesn't seem so ludicrous, in fact, it seems quite admirable."

I hope my words will one day mean something to someone.

I don't expect them to bring about earth-shattering consequences.

I'd settle for a gentle sparkling in their eyes, just enough to know it made a difference.

I don't know where my words will take me or if they'll even take me anywhere period.

I can't expect my words to be special or even noteworthy, after all, there are thousands of people who can write better than I ever will.

I know there will always be certain things beyond my reach and experiences that will always remain a mystery to me, but such is life, you cannot have it all.

I think I could be happy if nobody ever reads my words or if I never get published. It'd be enough for me to know I've written them down somehow, making them eternal in a way.

I guess I could settle for that. Besides, I am the writer, I can decide how I want my story to end. I get to choose whether or not it'll be an open ending or a closed one. I get to choose whether I want to wrap up all the storylines and fill in all the plot holes or whether I want to keep the ambiguity and solitude that surrounds my story.

Most of all, I just want her to read them, to see the words that I have written down so carefully, to see my life, possibly ours, through the ink presented on the page.

Maybe that way the story can have a closed ending. No plot holes or question marks.

"Words tell tales the voice cannot.

We only need to find them and write them down.

Salvation can lay within a single line of words.

I and love and you."

The blessing of poverty

Man has always tried to define the people around him. In the early years this came down to who had the biggest stick, but as man evolved, so did his need for distinguishing others. If you take a look at history you will discover that even the slightest difference between people has had the potential to wreak devastating consequences. We only have to think about the atrocities that were committed during the days of Nazi-occupied Europe to remind us of this. In the twenty-first century however, the labelling of people has become somewhat more subtle and it has basically fractured society into two parts: the haves and the have-nots.


A study in 2001 estimated that roughly 1.1 billion people had to get by with just $1 per day. Some experts have proclaimed that this number is likely to rise as industrialised countries keep moving forward, while the developing countries (safe for the new up-and-comers India and China) are falling further behind. Luckily, there is hope, as the World Bank has predicted that in 2030 the number of people living on $1 a day will reduce significantly to 550 million people, which comes down to less than one percent of the total world population.

The question that now comes to mind is what do the lives of those 1.1 billion people look like? If we say that they have to survive with only $1 a day, does that mean they are unhappy? If they don’t have the company car, the suburban villa with the lush green lawn or thousands of dollars in their bank account, does that mean they are less than us? Or could it be that there is some sort of other standard that measures happiness, one we have yet to discover? Maybe the fact that those people have not succumbed to consumerism or greediness has made them more happier than we could ever hope to be?

We often think that just because we have surrounded ourselves with all these trinkets and expensive goods that we are happy and that we live successful lives, but this has been proved wrong many times over. If we take a look at the classics such as Madame Bovary or The Great Gatsby we see that wealth and social standing rarely lead to happily ever after. Even modern day television shows us that living the American dream or something like it does not guarantee bliss.

Maybe we need to rethink the way we look at people who have less than us. Because in the fact that they do not have the money or prestige to fall back on, they are able to form their own personalities, free from social pressure and the need to succeed. They learn to know what is truly important in life, they even value it more than so many others. In having no two pennies to rub together, they are well aware of how valuable a single penny can be. A fact that is all too often discarded by us.

So in a way poverty opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, it rearranges our life goals so we do not feel the urge to chase after the new Mercedes-Benz CLC or the next 55inch LED television set. Being poor doesn’t necessarily mean poor in attitude or finances, it simply means that you have a better understanding of what is real and truly valuable in the world. Poverty can be a blessing and what is more, it is completely free of charge.

To write history is to change it

Since the day man mastered the skill of speech, he has asked himself the question “Why?”. Why is the sky blue, why am I here, why do I do the things I do? Questions that can only be answered by more questions. Therefore, when man found itself on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he turned to the cave walls and pieces of charcoal to try and make sense of this world. He drew the world as he saw it and somewhere along the way, he found the words to accompany his drawings. These words were then passed on and over the years, their original message changed.


Still, man could not solely rely on his drawings to explain the world around him, so he started inventing stories for the things he could not explain – not yet, anyway. It is a tale as old as time, for every unexplainable phenomena there is a magnificent story to fill in the blanks. Ancient Greeks saw Zeus as the cause of lightning, the Chinese believed dragons to be the deities that governed the earth and Native Americans worshipped the earth as if it was a living and breathing organism. Cultures and respective names may vary, but the concept stays the same. We turn to myths and legends to explain what we cannot. Every culture has their way of dealing with the X-factor in the equation. It would take thousands of years before science would catch up with folklore and offer valid and irrefutable explanations for why the sky is blue or how this world came to be.

Even now, in modern times, we turn to our imagination and sense of creativity to make sense of the things that have happened. Every nation has its name to protect and its values to uphold. It should come as no surprise that some people would rather see history rewritten in a different tone. Of course, it is impossible to change the outcome of the past, but if the aftermath of World War II has taught us anything, it is that it is always possible to simply forget, ignore or deny what has happened. But instead of conditioning an entire nation that something didn’t happen, you can always try to tell the story differently. Take the Civil War in America for instance. Roughly two hundred years ago it was North versus South. Slavery versus abolishment. Each side had its own agenda and its own way of telling what happened. Or a little further back, say the Battle of the Golden Spurs in Belgium, which for some is an excellent tale of glorifying the Flemish resistance and demonising the French occupiers. But no matter the nationality, type of government or mentality, there will always be those who benefit from a somewhat altered history.

Changing history is in itself not purely malicious, but the reasons why could be. To rewrite history is to always rewrite something for your own personal gain and that could be a problem. It seems unlikely that the Chinese will smile each time they hear the words Great Leap Forward or Cultural Revolution, much like the Americans will hate bringing up the subject of Vietnam. But sometimes, in those rare moments of lucidity and selflessness the rewriting of history can be something unifying and necessary. If the Flemish people had never heard those wonderful and inspirational tales of how mere peasants conquered the soldiers of the French King, would they have been able to declare their independence five centuries later? Would the brave American soldiers have dared to enter Iraq if they knew how horrible the war in Vietnam really was?

Luckily, since the rise of the Internet it has become somewhat more difficult to alter the course of history due to millions of people who are constantly monitoring the world and uploading their opinions about it. Their collective subjectivity acts as a sort of failsafe should anyone ever try to change what happened. The Internet is not bound by morals, opinions or censorship. In some way the Internet is more steadfast than most history books because it offers so many different points of view. In the end, we can read all we want, but we will still make up our own mind, we will still deduct the information for ourselves and interpret it as we see fit. Therefore, it is feasible that we forge our opinions, not based on just one source, but on many sources.

But what is mostly forgotten is the fact that every word we write, whether we are certified historians or mere fervent bloggers, is subject to our personal opinions. What we write can never truly be objective. In all that we write, do or say there hides a sense of self. Therefore it is quite difficult to defend the position of an objective history. It would be quite hypocritical to proclaim that we can write sans prejudice. But that shouldn’t be a reason to wipe the slate clean and start a new story.

One of the main objectives of history is to tell what happened as precisely as possible. It is a most tiresome and gruelling process of fact-checking and data-processing. But at least the result is one of collaboration and intersubjectivity and these two ingredients often lead to something reliable.

Since it is impossible to integrate every detail that lingers in the corridors of history, it is better to have a condensed, yet substantial book written, not with the intention to be precise and accurate, but with the outlook of staying true to past events and documenting them in a way that preserves its relativity and truthfulness.

A secret world

Every time I log back onto Blogger it feels like coming home. Don't really know what it is that keeps me coming back here, but I like it. It's something consistent, almost tangible. Like an anchor that keeps me grounded, keeps me from letting my mind get the best of me.

For the longest time I've thought about possible subjects to write about without repeating myself. Although on the other hand, a recurring subject, a red line throughout these heaps of words couldn't hurt now, could they? Or maybe an amalgamation of subjects is needed to keep this blog vivid and interesting? I still haven't quite figured that part out.

So anyways, I'll begin by letting you in on this little secret world that I've stumbled across. It's a world played out entirely between four walls, of which two of them are completely covered in mirrors. The entire surface is covered with mechanic devices that allow the people in that little world to become something else, something better. I'm talking about the gym, of course!

Whenever I'm at the gym, slaving away on some infernal machine that has the power to burn off those excessive calories, I allow my eyes to slide across the room and see how my fellow slavers are doing. So far, I've encountered quite a lot of intriguing people there.

First off, there are the Workout Nomads, they are a special brand of fitnessgoers who are seen exclusively around the halters and bench presses. They are called Nomads because they don't seem to have a set course, they just wander around between the gleaming equipments and occassionaly do four or five pull ups. The strange thing about is that they don't really look as if they need to work out, since they already have the perfectly sculpted body. It would be best not to look at them too much or else you might leave the gym feeling jealous and slightly enraged.

Secondly, we have the case of the Elderly Resistance Fighters who try desperately to fight off the encroaching clutches of time itself. They wage a silent, but inevitable war against aging and sagging skin. You see them running for their lives - or to the extent that their bodies allow - to stay ahead of the effects of time. Seeing as how they've survived at least one or two wars, they are quite the fighters and should be approached with the utmost caution.

The gym also features a more pesterous and annoying type of fitnessgoer, namely the Chatty Cathy. In most cases this type comes in female form and has a very distinct feature: it can't stop talking or laughing loudly and obnoxiously. This is the kind of type you'd want to avoid if you are thinking of doing fitness on the long term. They usually just hang around the fitness equipment, rather than actively do something. Be weary of the Chatty Cathys that come in packs. If you see more than one of them together, it is advised to stay clear of them lest you succumb to their never-ending chatter and giggling.

Yes, the gym does seem to create its own little world in between its four walls. A world where beauty runs skin deep and the sculpting of bodies is considered to be the first and foremost activity. For some this world will be a way for them to show off their perfect bodies, while for others it will become their personal hell on the way to becoming perfect.

But unlike the rest of the world, there is no hierarchy within these exercise sanctuaries. There is no ruling body, no governing entity that tells you what to do. It comes down to just you and your mind. And in a way your mind is what guides you through it all. It's what keeps you motivated when you feel like you're about to break down on the treadmill, it's what compells you to go on, it's what releases all of the good chemicals into your body after a good workout. In a way, your mind acts as a personal god. Only, this one actually listens and rewards its believers.

The gym can be a lot of things. It can be your Shangri-La or your own Vietnam. But the most important thing is that it can be your ticket for a better and healthier life. It can be your catalyst for change, for a new you, a better you?

Tipping the scales (2)

So my story has brought me to two weeks ago when my Dad suggested we should go to a fitness. It had long crossed my mind that I should really start to do something about my weight, so this seemed like a good enough chance to turn things around.

But I wasn't expecting to walk into a gym full of perfectly sculpted bodies and veritable athletes. I though the gym was meant for people who wanted to lose weight? Yet I didn't see a single person weighing more than 75 kilos. I felt the desperation infiltrate my mind and spreading fear throughout my system.

Wherever I turned I saw men with huge arms (plus the matching tribal tattoos) and girls who seemed as if they could go on for hours on those treadmills. And then you look at yourself in one of the wall-to-wall mirrors, which if you ask me, are just meant to torture the not-perfectly-trained, and you realize you look like a complete pig compared to them. I ran on the treadmill for fifteen minutes and I was sweating like you wouldn't believe, but the guy next to me who was running even harder, never even broke a sweat. Sometimes, I think God has it in for people who diverge from the so-called perfect man, the Adam, he created. And society agrees. If you don't look like a Brad Pitt or a Megan Fox, you don't get to be happy. You just end up bitter and alone. Or maybe this is just my cynicism talking.

But I knew it was time to turn back the tide that had robbed me from the person I was one year prior. I'm not ashamed to say that I've resorted to extreme measures to lose weight, but in my opinion it's just what needs to be done. If you've never been fat, you cannot possibly begin to understand how the world looks to us and how it looks at us. I pray that nobody out there feels like me when they enter a swimming pool or when they try their best to keep up in gym class. But I know that those people are out there and that they'd understand me. They understand the need to change, the need to feel accepted and to feel good about themselves whenever they see themselves in the mirror.

And this time, when I reach my goal weight, I won't stop running, I will keep doing what I have to do. Because I cannot let it all slip away from me again. Not after knowing how wonderful that one year was that I didn't have to suck in my gut every time I walked into a crowded room. I just know that I don't wanna be that person again. I want to feel free and unashamed of who I am. And I want to be able to fit back into my old clothes again. I want the real me back.

Tipping the scales (1)

Ever since the day I started seeing a number on the scale that I really didn't like I started to quietly deteste myself for letting it all come this far. Just two years ago, I had it all: a healthy weight, a nice future lined up in Ghent and I was living on my own for the first time. I told myself this would be my second chance at happiness in college. A new me and a whole new way of life.

With just two hours of class a day I figured it'd be easy to go for a run daily. But that was not the case. For some reason, I stopped running fairly early on and only ran sporadically after that. I didn't exactly overeat, since I haven't touched a burger or fries in nearly 4 years. So it puzzled me how some of my clothes started to became a bit cramped. I cleverly avoided this problem by simply buying new and better ones. I guess we all fool ourselves some way, don't we?

When my prom arrived, I found myself unable to fit into the suit I wore the year before. I panicked and immediatly started a crashdiet. I went for a run twice a day, each time passing my pain limit just a bit further. I only drank water and ate plenty of fruit. Luckily, by week's end I was able to fit into my tux once more. But somewhere in the back of my mind a voice was saying: "watch out, you're going to let it slip away." I quieted the voice and resumed my life.

With the exams coming up, I found myself becoming addicted to energy drinks. I started six months ago when I was studying for Statistics. I was unable to concentrate so I went out and bought three cans of Red Bull. I opened one and slowly sipped at it for about an hour. Meanwhile I was busy studying. But the Red Bull gave me such an incredible edge that I couldn't help but wonder: "Was Red Bull the savior for students in need?" With the June exams I bought a whole lot more and drank one or two daily. Not knowing or not caring that they were actually pure sugar, wrapped in candy, covered in delicious sweetness.

Weeks went by and by the time the Summer began I had gained even more weight. But the stress of my vacation job and my re-examinations caused me to start stress-eating and continue gulping down that delicious energy drink. August was my last chance at losing some weight before I left for a week in Spain. This meant seven days of walking around in a swimsuit, by a pool, surrounded by thin(ner) people. Or as I like to call it: Hell in disguise.

I managed to lose some weight, but it wasn't enough and with the change of scenery (moving from Ghent to Brussels) I completely let myself go. I shamelessly ate whatever I wanted and drank what I wanted. It didn't seem to matter much anymore. I figured that there was nothing left to do. I slaved for a year to lose 20 kilos and within that same timespan, it all went away. I felt miserable and the self-loathing took on the most grotesque form of all: binge eating. Whenever I looked down at my gut, I felt bad. So bad that I had to still my thoughts by eating something.

It's funny how our mind works. The more you want something, the more your mind pushes you to do the complete opposite. When you really want to buy something, your mind starts to wonder if it's worth the money or what good it'll do. It rarily agrees with you and aids you in your quest for your desires.

Connected

Sometimes I feel so powerless. I feel like all this stuff around me is just happening and I can't do anything to stop it, accelerate it, or even slow it down. It seems as if it has a life of its own. The same goes for people. They live their lives, they go about their businesses and they all have a fixed agenda in mind. Sometimes it's possible to break through their routine and change it, but most of the time, people will do what they want, when they want it. That's the downside of living in a well-fare state at the beginning of the 21th century. You can get anything from anywhere. Contact anybody you want in a heartbeat (or via six degrees of separation). The world has become a marketplace. We order what we want, when we want it and in the exact quantity that we prefer. Anything that doesn't interest us, we cast aside. Sadly, this can also be applied to people.

Even though we're all so connected and so close to one another, we rarely make that true connection, that bond that lasts a lifetime. Only a few people that cross our paths are granted this precious gift. In that instant, when eyes meet and smiles are exchanged, a symbiotic relationship is formed where one cannot think of life without the other person. When one person is sad, the other will be too irrevocably. Some might attribute this to sience, others to hocus pocus or plain coincidence, but I believe that there is a reason that two people meet. Maybe we meet them so that we can one day help them with a problem they cannot possibly deal with alone. Or maybe the other person met us, so that he or she could help us someday.

Today I was talking to my best friend and she was down. A year ago, we lived in the same city, now I'm 100 kilometers the other way. When she talked to me about how she was feeling, I was breaking up inside. My best friend was hurting, and I was here. Powerless to aid her, powerless to comfort her. I can only hope that with those few kind words and lots of smileys - that somehow never quite seem to grasp the right emotion - I was able to help her somewhat. I do believe that I met her for a reason, I know this for sure because every time I see her again, my heart skips a beat and I've never felt happier. She can bring a smile to my face when I need it and give me comfort, I only hope I was able to help her now, since now she needed my help. That's the thing about technology, we might be more connected in cyberspace, but we're becoming more and more disconnected in real life.

Honey, if you're reading this, I hope your doing a little bit better now, and know that I am always here for you. You really are the girl with the connection, never forget that. I cannot imagine life without you.

Love