Lilac Colored Glasses

For anyone who hasn’t realized it yet, my blog was hacked right after I made my last post. CB fixed it but it was corrupted less than a day later. This is now the second time (last year I was hacked in June as well) that I’ve felt invaded in what I consider my personal space. For as cool as having my own domain name is, I confess, the fear of being hacked and losing the last 3 years of almost daily writing permanently has lead me to the decision to abandon this blog.

I’m still deciding on whether or not I’ll pursue a new one or not, but if I do, I’ll post here to let any remaining readers know where you all can find me.

You probably notice I haven’t been blogging much lately.
And I haven’t, aside from the {W}rite-Of-Passage prompts. Now that site has gone on hiatus for March as Mrs. Flinger, the creator, is moving.

I’ve tried writing posts a few times but I barely manage to tick out a full sentence before losing steam and puttering off to play here or here. It doesn’t mean I’m not writing at all though. I am currently creating characters, often while on my way to work or during my break. Which means all my writing is ending up in my notebook, napkins and the backs of the pastry sleeves. It also means I’ve started rethinking the constantly mocking, never quite inspiring idea of writing a book.
Yes, I know all bloggers seem to be writing their memoirs these days, but I’ve actually been toying with the book idea since I was…oh… seven years old or so.
Obviously I excel in the field of procrastination.

The one time I did actually sit and write a chapter or two in earnest, the only two people who read it (Scooter and Bub, who is now finishing his MFA in creative writing…if you knew us back when we dated, you’d be struck dumb by the irony in this) really liked it and wanted me to continue. Sadly, that was also the year I had my little breakdown and the chapters were lost somewhere during some drunken, depressed rage or another. I’ve started bookmarking pages in order to re-research the main character, but that’s about all it has come to. Now, however, physical descriptions, character traits, plotlines have all been throwing themselves at me and I’ve begun to jot them down, catagorize, develop.

It’s a new idea, a fresher idea and oddly enough looks like it’s going in a fantasy fiction direction.

Cause I guess my real life just isn’t dramatic enough anymore.
Which brings me back around to the title of this post. I’ve always written my best while in the throws of anxiety attacks, depression, anger, desperation. Poetry in particular was my outlet for all of these negative emotions. But the poetry well dried up a long time ago and the emo-blogg elegance seems to have slowly crept away now too. My nice, settled real life with its steady job, fun coworkers, loving fiancé, two cats and supportive family has rendered me silent.

I’m really not sure what to do about this. I’m thinking maybe the people who still read this may have things they want to hear about. Stories I promised to tell but never did, specific questions about living in a foreign country that I’ve never addressed. If you do, please speak up. Otherwise I’ll try to find some things to write about outside of the prompts given by {W}rite-Of-Passage.

This week is just a countdown.

A countdown to a long awaited trip to Cologne, Germany.

Ever since I saw the Christmas markets for the first time last year I’ve been hoping to see what CB said was the biggest Christmas Market in the world (it’s actually 7 different markets throughout the city) and this upcoming Friday we’ll be on our way to Germany via the bullet train to spend a whole weekend browsing the markets, seeing the sites and tasting the local fare.

After last week and this weekend, which I spent either sleeping or inside avoiding the constant rain, I absolutely can’t wait to get out and see something new. And we’ll be taking both cameras so there’ll be plenty of pictures to share when we get back.

I’m so excited!!!

I step from the hushed early morning train car and am immediately swept into the eddying precursor to the tide of hustling commuters. We briskly trot upwards into Brussels Central Station and emerge briefly into the chill morning air, still cloaked in pre-dawn shades of blue before descending again into the tunnel connecting the train station to the metro line.

Here the floors are tacky and gritty, swirled with questionable brownish gray stains from those who traipse the tunnel nocturnally. The stale air reeks of aging urine and one lone man in a red jumpsuit and fluorescent vest is slowly taking a push broom to the refuse from the crevices where the ragged homeless have spent the night. Our trickle of pre-rush traffic seeps swiftly out into the metro station and my nose is assaulted by an overwhelming odor like soft pretzels coated in excess butter, hung under a heatlamp for far too long. The smell forcefully claws its way into my throat as I flee downwards to the metro platform.

Dull yellow light shine down on the brown or orange plastic molded seats in the metro car. My ears pick up smatterings of Dutch, French, German and several other languages that I can’t identify. My nose catches the smells of the living: an early morning coffee, fresh nicotine, a morning quicky haphazardly masked by overpowering perfume. Four spurts of speed take me to the heart of the European Quarter of the city and I ascend once more, this time under a periwinkle umbrella of oncoming daylight. A delicate rain, only slightly denser than mist, hangs in the air and it clings to my oversize woolen jacket like sparkling dew. I feel the crisp touch dampen my face, cooling me from the friction of the incessant crowd as I walk down the still sidewalks, kicking through large carpets of wet maple leaves.

After several blocks, I turn right, pull the keys from my pocket and open the blue painted door, entering the hallway and preparing myself for my day’s work.