Part fact part fiction is what life is.
In a subterranean space hidden from the eyes of the usual, unimpressed expats,
another Brussels is expanding, laying out its pieces before me, drawing me in.
Nobody starts their conversations with "what do you do?",
there are no businesscards, no jaded sense of self-importance.
"What do you write?" they ask,
curiously eyeing each other, trying to see past the exterior.
Erotic science fiction, bruised poems, criminal novels, the occasional surreal short story.
And short sentences.
Like this.
We share tales of fleeting inspiration, scattered notebooks, elusive recognition
and embarrassing drafts imprudently left by the copy machine.
We part without exchanging phone numbers and nobody will look me up on Linkedin.com
Maybe it is all the same in the end, but it is different then and there.
- What do you write?
The question allowing for the disclosure of your entire life, or for making it all up.
To leave out nothing or to selectively open up doors, while closing the windows.
After all, nothing is as true as story.
Trust storytellers to tell you that.
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