Lost in Translation
Brussels, May 15th — TuesdayThe Gray Horizon
If you had told me a year ago that I’d be able to distinguish four different shades of gray in the Brussels sky, I would have laughed in your face. Yet here I am, sitting by the window in this apartment we rented in the European Quarter, and the most exciting thing that happened today was the mailman sliding an envelope under the door. It wasn’t even for me.
They told me moving abroad was an adventure, a "restart," a chance to grow. But nobody prepared me for this emptiness that crawls under your skin. The new language feels like gravel in my mouth, the customs feel like a play I don't know the script to, and time? Time doesn't flow here; it just stands still and stares at me with contempt.
A Slow Erosion of Self
I’m dying of boredom here. Truly, it’s not a hyperbole. I feel like parts of me are simply drying up and falling off from lack of use. In the morning, I get up, make coffee, and arrange the pillows on the sofa in perfect order. Then what? I go to the café on the corner just to feel like part of the world.
Today, I found myself sitting across from some local trying to strike up a conversation in broken French. He’s bored me to tears. I found myself nodding and wearing this plastic, frozen smile while my brain was screaming "get me out of here!" He talked about percentages, I thought about the sea back home.
The White Noise of Stagnation
This "stuckness" is a cage with transparent walls. I see people running to work, and I wonder if they also feel like actors in a bad play that lasts forever. This boredom isn't "freedom"—it’s a type of white noise that fills your head until you can no longer hear your own thoughts.
I try to read, but the words dance before my eyes without meaning. It’s not that there’s nothing to do technically—there are museums and parks—but when your soul is stuck in the mud, no "attraction" can pull you out. I’ll just keep sitting here, in this beautiful, alien country, dying slowly of boredom, one tear at a time.