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

Fiction - or is it?

After racking my brain about a possible subject for quite some time, I finally decided to acquaint you with one of the new things that I'm really exited about. It's a graphic novel, a medium that I can definitely appreciate and that I find very enjoyable! I've already read Wanted, V for Vendetta and of course the 12 volumes of Watchmen, all of which are highly recommended by yours truly.
 

But the graphic novel I wanted to talk about today, is something else. It's something new and edgy, so of course it has caught my eye! I've always had a thing for controversial projects and stories, which is why I loved the short-lived television series Jericho and other independent projects. For the people who haven't heard of Jericho, here's a short summary: "The US falls under attack when 23 major American cities are nuked. A small town located in Kansas survives the nuclear holocaust and the show is about the struggles of this particular town and their search for the true conspirators behind the September Attacks."

I could give you a full list of all the interesting television, literary and movie projects that have inspired and moved me, but I figured since this is just a simple personal blog, one controversial project would suffice. And if not, don't worry, their will be more blogs which will undoubtedly include many other shocking and awe-inspiring things!

So without further ado, this is what I've been meaning to talk to you about...

DMZ
Welcome to America's second Civil War

DMZ is a graphic novel that depicts a world where overseas wars have caused the United States to neglect the silent war that was brewing in their Mid-West. The US government mistankingly neglects the threat of anti-establishment militias scattered across the country. Like a sleeping giant, Middle America rises up and violently pushes its way to the shining seas, sparking a second Civil War. The war comes to a shrieking standstill at the line in the sand. You've probably heard of this place before. It's called Manhattan. Or at least, it was. Now it's called the DMZ.

Matty Roth is an aspiring journalist who becomes stranded in the war-torn metropolis and is exposed to a world of car bombings, booby-trapped streets and buildings, snipers lurking in the once vibrant and crowded streets of Manhattan. Matty struggles to recover after his helicopter is shot duwn, cutting off his last escape route out of the city. Gunned down and in over his head, he finds refuge with the people still remaining on the island. But his integration into this new society won't be so easy. The city has become divided into different factions. And they're all looking for blood or another way of emptying their ammo clips. 

Manhattan ain't what it used to be...

So why, do you ask, does this particular graphic novel, this story interest me? Because I've always been fascinated with the question "what if?" In this vast universe that we all inhabit, choices are made on a daily basis, but we rarily grasp just how far these choices can stretch. So I enjoy reading stories about these alternate realities. A world different than ours. A turning point that made our reality go this way, and the alternate one the other.

I firmly believe in the existence of these realities. We don't live in a universe, but a multiverse. I can understand that this must sound very sci-fi to you, but I don't think of it in the CGI-blockbuster, alternative history way. I see people making choices. And when they chose one thing, they inevitably discard the other choice. But I believe that causes a breaking point in our world. We choose to go one way, but another part of us wants to go the other way. And within that dichotomy a new reality is brought into existence.

So what does this have to do with DMZ? Well, DMZ offers an alternate reality where the overseas troubles have led to a second American Civil War. A war between the US government's need for warfare and the anti-militia groups that have formed around the country.

Of course, all of this remains fiction, as it has not happened yet. But nobody is able to predict the future. We don't know where our actions will lead us. And within that uncertainty a multiverse is born. Each one slightly different from the other, but sharing one unifying anchor: choices.

My brother

It’s not always easy living with someone who has a mild form of autism. It’s even harder when it’s somebody close to you. Like for instance your own brother. The first thing you need to know about us is that we were never close. We always fought or called each others names, but we never became the close brothers we should have been. I’d often see my friends getting along fine with their brothers, even going so far as considering them to be real friends. I never had that. And I never will.

The second thing you need to know is that there was always something off about my brother. It started with little things such as his rather pointless remarks, his forgetfulness, his childish behaviour, but most of all the general way with which he went about his day. He would always shut himself off inside his world that he had created. He would imagine the most amazing and fantastic stories and let himself be completely immersed by them. When I was younger I would let myself get lost in his dream world too, but later on, I guess I outgrew them. He didn’t.

At primary school he was doing really well. He got good grades, had some friends and even a couple of innocent and playful girlfriends. He wasn’t bad looking so he had a way with girls. It all started to change when he arrived in the sixth year of primary school. His behaviour would become erratic and slowly he started to drift off into his imagination more frequently. He began to invent stories and act strangely, but we never dared to think that something was wrong with him. Just being kids, I guess.

In secondary school it started to go downhill. He changed directions a lot because of his dwindling grades. More often my parents would receive remarks made by his teacher that he wasn’t paying enough attention, that he was telling lies. This carried on for three years. When I was in the first year of secondary school, we were seeing a psychologist to help him deal with his fantasies. I hated it, because my defiance to go to those meetings was to them a sign that I was somehow the cause of it all. I was mostly singled out because of my assertive behaviour. At that point I wanted to become a psychologist, so I could do a better job.

My brother changed schools and things got even worse. He was bullied and things spiralled out of control. Meanwhile my parents had him tested. Hearing: good. Sight: good (apart from the fact that he had to wear glasses, same as me). Motor reflexes: good. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him.

Because he had been held back two years, we ended up in the same year. We were both in the final year of secondary school. That’s when it all went to hell. I was repeatedly approached by his class mates wanting to know if a story he told was true. They were all lies. My parents got wind of this too and after he failed his exams in December he was forced to leave the school. During the next year and a half his situation completely deteriorated. He became nervous, agitated, angry and sometimes even violent. When I came home from Ghent he always seemed so lost. I wanted to help him about a million times, but we weren’t like that.

In late February the whole thing exploded. He was committed into a psychiatric institution for evaluation. The first three weeks he wasn’t allowed visitors and since I was in Ghent during the week, I missed most of his first few weeks there. But I vividly remember the first time I visited him there. It was heartbreaking.

My heart pounded from the second we got in the car to go see him. I had been in a psychiatric institute before to go see someone else I loved, but it all felt new again. Inside my heart was breaking. I was going to visit my two year older brother, in a mental institution.

When we got up the steps at the entrance I was about ready to fall apart. My Dad lead the way, while I was lagging behind. I wished the hallway would never end and we would just be stuck there, but pretty soon my Dad said it was the second door to the right. There it was. Inside I screamed my lungs out. Outside I appeared together and tried to smile.

The moment he saw me he jumped off the bed and he hugged me. It felt weird. It still does. I was so nervous and hesitant I had to force myself to hug him back and smile at him. I couldn’t help it. We went to the cafeteria to talk where we were surrounded by all those other patients. Their eyes all seemed to have glazed over. Staring. Waiting. Some quietly talking to themselves. It completely freaked me out, but I held it together. I had to.

At around seven thirty, he told us he had signed up for soccer. Apparently, they offered a wide array of sports and entertainment activities there. We went to the gym, where my Mom and Dad entered, but I said I’d stay outside for a minute. Watching my brother play and seeing the other mentally disturbed – by lack of a euphemism – I broke down. I ran for the stairs where I let the sadness flood over me. The tears bubbled up behind my eyes and soon after rolled down my cheeks.

He was my brother. He was turning twenty-one. He should have been in his third year of college or university. He should have had a girlfriend by now, or a boyfriend, I don’t care. He should have been outside of these walls, living his life, enjoying it. Instead, he was in here. There was something wrong with him and I didn’t know what it was. I couldn’t help him. I just couldn’t. Because we were never like that. I never had a brother. He was never my friend. We weren’t close. Yet here he was. Alone. And I couldn’t help him. It wasn’t until that moment that I finally realized how long I had wanted him to be my brother. How much I wanted us to be friends. How much I wanted him to be the godfather to my children. I wanted to tell him I loved him, but I couldn’t. That just wasn’t us.

I cried for fifteen minutes. Whenever I heard a noise I tried to compose myself as quickly as I could, but I knew you could still tell that I had been crying. The visit ended about forty-five minutes later. Our goodbyes were platonic, but I wanted them to be so much more. In the car I sent him a text explaining why I seemed so distant and cold. I wrote all the things I couldn’t say to him. I said I was sorry and that I wanted him to be the brother I always wanted.

At home I was greeted by our dog, but I still couldn’t shake the day off of me. My Dad made a stupid joke and I laughed, briefly. I fell into his arms and the tears started welling up again. In his arms I sobbed until I was ready to let him go, but I knew I never could. I pulled away eventually and retreated to my room. I fell asleep very quickly after that. But he never left my mind.

Now when I see him, I try to be understanding and supportive. But I won’t deny that it’s hard. For the first time in nearly eighteen years I have a brother, a brother with a mental disability. It takes some getting used to.

Prospect of life

Having just finished my final article for the school news paper, I can't wait to see that baby hit the newsstands, and by newsstands I mean the cafeteria tables of the HUB campuses.

For the first issue I've written two movie reviews, three book reviews, a lifestyle piece about the vanity and cosmetic-surgery oriented world of today as well as two articles about school campagnes. Hopefully the first issue will please hordes of students so that I can continue writing next year. I don't think I can wish for a better catalyst to set my future journalism career in motion. And just think about the abundant bylines this will give me!

To think that years ago, I saw myself becoming a psychiatrist or a social worker seems almost too hard to believe right now. Never had I thought that this urge, this need to write would prevail over my lifelong desire of studying psychology. I never saw myself as a writer. First off, it didn't seem to be quite lucrative and secondly, since I've never been able to see a story through, I was surprised to find that each time I woke up I began to think about writing. It's strange to think how far it has brought me.

I mean, here I am, writing my twenty-faux blog or something, one having more consistency or literary value than the other, but nonetheless there they are, plain for all to see. My writing. My words. My world. Sometimes I wonder how many people have read my words and if they liked them. I occasionally scroll down to the bottom of the blog to see if anyone checked interesting, cool or funny.

But the truth is, I don't care how many people read my words. I know that this blog is just a grain of sand in this massive desert of words and pictures. I'm not as presumptuous as to think that my blog would stir up something in the minds of my readers, something so profound that they'd never be the same again.

Later on, I would love to write something that could change someone's world. If I can reach out to just one person and make that person's life better or give him/her some kind of purpose, I would know that I did something right. It would give my work, the work that I love to do, meaning and that is one of the most precious feelings in the world. To know that what you do, actually means something.

So for all those journalists out there, remember that your work means something and that it can really touch someone. One day I hope to join your ranks. And for all those editors out there, reading this small and insignificant blog, who are touched by my work, please consider these writings as my resume and if you have any openings available, please be so kind as to think of me when you're reviewing possible candidates.

With the push of a button

Social network sites. Often hailed as the flagships of online communication, but nobody bothers to tell you it can also be the reason for the collapse of said communication.

By know, you're all caught up with my history with M., but today I received a veritable core-shaking blow. A severe heart trauma for which there is no known cure - except maybe redemption. To think that the order of certain letters and the clicking of a button could lead to something so disastrous and yet so full of hope seems almost unbelievable. 

It started off with me typing in her name. Those seventeen letters that formed those four words that I knew all too well and that I could never erase from my mind - even if I wanted to. I typed them into one of those million search boxes scattered across the world wide web. With a slighty trembling hand I pressed the button "Search". In the past, this had worked out so well for me, reconnecting with past friends, getting to know new ones and keeping up with the ones I already had, but it had also disconnected me from the people that I had once loved.

In life there are some people who become persona non grata and to which all access is denied or blocked - as the correct internet term would have it. Up until ten minutes ago, I thought M. belonged to that group. For eight months I had blocked her and in response she did the same to me. Seemed only natural by the way we had let it crash and burn.

Sometimes I would find myself wandering off to see how she was doing. I would find loopholes that would allow me to see her profile. Alas, reason got the best of me and closed the page, wiping her picture from the screen. It always left me feeling empty and regretful.

But a few nights ago, I decided I didn't want her to not see me anymore, so I unblocked her. I still couldn't see her though, but I didn't mind that. I just wanted to ease the tension that had been built up between us. Let her know I was still there, waiting, hoping. A small act, one which I never expected to have any consequences.

Apparently it did. It would be roughly thirteen minutes ago that I discovered she had unblocked me too. For the first time in eight months I could see her profile, no loopholes needed. She looked great, as she always did. It made me feel bad when I realized all the shit I had put her through. She didn't deserve that.

To this day, I still can't figure out why I overreacted. Was it my fear of me not getting what I wanted? Was I afraid of rejection? Or was it fate? Whatever the reason, there's nothing I can do about it now. To make matters worse, when she tried to re-establish contact, I pushed her even further away, seemingly shutting the door forever, only I didn't want that.

I have no idea if she will ever read this blog, or if she will ever read anything that I'll write, but if she does, I just want her to know that the door is still open. The door is open. If you will have me.

No sleep tonight

It's just one of those nights when you can't seem to fall asleep and you start to wonder off to the most inner depths of your mind, painfully and heartbreakingly bringing back the experiences you thought you never had to deal with again.

It feels like an old wound that's being ripped open, regardless of the fact whether you want to or not. It hurts. It keeps you from falling asleep.

I try to block the thoughts out, but they keep breaking through, as if they have a mind of their own. As if they want to be heard.

Every fibre in my body begins to tense. I feel my back beginning to burn. I need to do something, write it down, maybe that way I can deal with it faster, even though I know this isn't the type of problem that has a quick and easy solution. This is me, and the choices I've made and that I can never take back. But somehow, today, tonight, at this hour, I want to. I want to stop myself from sending that email. Control + A and delete. Seems easy enough.

Erase it. All of it. Take it back. I want to do things differently. I want to see her again at the party and talk to her, hold her. I can't get her out of my mind. Steadily the flow of memories creeps into my mind. The echoes of our past. Do I give in to them? Is this just a flash of nostalgia? Or do I just want to try and correct a mistake that I've made? The question is: "Should I?" Is it my right to shake up her whole world again, after all this time has passed? Maybe she's moved on. Or maybe, just maybe, she's thinking the exact same thing. Maybe. Such a beautiful word. Holds so much promise.

The whole situation is just fucked up. What is wrong with me? Why am I doing this right now? Why didn't I think it through before? I lost her. I pushed her away. How can I expect that she'll welcome me back with open arms? I don't deserve that.

All I can think about is this stupid line Mr Big said in "Sex and The City": "I know I screwed up - but I will love you forever." How come I didn't think of it before, back when it still mattered?

Her name keeps buzzing through my head. I need to do something, anything. But not now, it's late and I'm in no position to think rationally or even sanely. I'd hate to see my emotions getting the best of me and see history repeat itself. I need to do it right this time.

But what if I wake up and I feel completely different? What if this feeling doesn't come back? Is it something worth pursuing? Should I? God, I'm so messed up! I'm like an emotional train wreck, the pieces of my life strewn around me and my thoughts all twisted. Total-loss.

I'm afraid that the longer I wait, the further away I let her slip. She's already so far away. A good chance that she's already gone. Can't say that I blame her. She deserves to be happy. I owe her that much. I just wish we could have been happy together. Guess there's always tomorrow, right?

But what do I say? What do I say to make her believe in me again, in us? What can I say that will right all the wrongs, make her forgive me? What do I say so she'll let me back in her life? Is it still possible?

For M. - I'm sorry.

Hopes and dreams

"My name is Laurens and I'm guilty for wanting too much too soon."

Even though I'm only 19, I want to do so much more with my life than what I'm doing right now. I want to work as a freelance writer at a famous paper or magazine. And when I'm done with writing or working freelance, I'd like to be able to become an English teacher in the hopes of inspiring children to read or write and watch them grow. Chauvinism compells me to say that I love Belgium and that I can't think of another country to live in, but the truth is that I don't want to stay here. I want to live in a famous city like New York, London or Paris, even if that means giving up half my paycheck just to keep a roof over my head. I'd love to live in an apartment with an amazing view of the cityscape. I want to see the world and I want to start a family sometime in my early- to mid-twenties.

Yes, I know that to some, this sounds rediculous, but I just can't wait to jumpstart my life. If I could just fast-forward these obnoxious years at college or all of the crappy jobs that I'll have in between and just skip to the good part, life would be so much easier. However, I know that I will have to go through the motions. No pain, no gain is what they say - but whoever said that,  should be shot.

Still, I can't help but wonder what all those years at college are good for. We spend four years studying all sorts of things, taking exams and writing essays, but for what exactly? We sure as hell can't use any of it on our resume!

When I think about what I want my life to look like, I use - and I'm not ashamed to say this - television shows such as 'Sex and The City' and 'Will and Grace' as examples. I want to write for a living like Carrie Bradshaw (though not in terms of her sex column), go to the art gallery openings, visit all the hot new bars and restaurants and enjoy life to the fullest in a metropolis such as New York. I want to live in an apartment like Will and Grace do and be surrounded by my closest friends - I wouldn't even mind to indulge in some situation comedy once in a while. I know why those shows are so successful: because everybody secretly wants their life. They want the promisciuous lifestyle, the amazing friendships and all of the others things that the actors seemingly have and that they lack. Who could blame them, really?

So yesterday I started playing around on some real estate sites and I looked up a few apartments in New York. I suggested monthly rent between $500 en $1500 - which is already a lot of money - but I only ended up with crappy one-bedroom apartments. Needless to say that life in a major city can also cost major amounts of money.

Then I realized that James Frey, author of 'Bright Shiny Morning', already discussed the real estate hell that New York is in. Today it seems as though only the high-income superstar earners have a shot at landing a pre-war apartment that doesn't look as if it's actually been through a war. James Frey commented on New York's insupportable situation that Los Angeles has become a new haven for the people that have been rendered homeless by NY's rising rents.

Living in LA. It wouldn't have been my first choice, but definitely not my last! Sure, I wouldn't mind the 73% days of sun out of a whole year or brushing past superstars in the streets. No sir, I wouldn't mind that at all. Hell, if LA means cheaper apartments, more sun and a greater chance of celebrity-spotting, I'd gladly take a few tremors and floods to go with it.

Of course, for now, my situation seems pretty restricted to the borders of Belgium. But one day, and hopefully that day isn't too far off, I'd like to pack my bags, put all of my books and dvds in a box, bubblewrap my fragiles, plant a big "FOR SALE" sign on my front lawn and ship off to the New World.

Until that day, dear reader, I'll still be here, jammering about the days to come, the places to see and the desires that remain unfulfilled. Hopefully this aspiration won't lead to me becoming the male equivalent of a cat lady, sitting all alone in my one-bedroom apartment, grinding my teeth and talking to all of my cats (preferably dogs, since I'm not a cat person) about the good ol' days. Should this happen, please shoot me - or at least stungun me.

"My name is Laurens and I am a dreamer. Always am, always will be".