If I had to put a Facebook status for my relationship with Brussels it would be “it’s complicated”. It really is complicated; there is something in it that I can’t find anywhere else, but it is all almost surreal.
From the first sight it’s a boring, grey and not even a beautiful city, without any identity on its own. It’s a smaller imitation of Paris’ goregousness, a weaker imitation of Amsterdam’s freedom designed for European officials and uniformly dressed bank workers. Even the languages spoken are not really French or Dutch.Everything is slightly undermined in it; fashion, food, buildings; so everything is slightly unreal.
But when I really look into Brussels it appeares to me in a geometrical shape of an atomium, in a gigantic mussel shell hanging in the Royal Park, in a surrealistic silhouette of a man in a bowler hat, in a foggy street lit by high and edgy lamps, in a gothic cathedral hanging over ultra-modern glass buildings.
It echoes in me with strange geometrical shapes of figures didn’t know of, in sounds of songs I have never heard of, in smells of waffles best eaten plain, in comics drawn on its walls, in long streets blown by winds and in poetry lines inspired by foggy twilights.
Brussels’ surrealistic beauty sometimes feels as something I just have invented, challenging my sense of reality just like Margritte’s painting of a pipe with a written “Ceci n’est pas une pipe ” on it.
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