Gent

Rasi baxxuta, ġismi għasra. Ninnota s-swaba ta’ saqajja mrassa fuq art tiżloq. Il-qtar jiżżerżaq ma’ wiċċi, spallti, sidri, żobbi u saqajja sa ma jintelaq fl-art. Il-fwar jgħannaqni f’dil-kaxxa fejn ġismi nħossu sabiħ.

Illum irħejtilha lejn Gent. Reuben xogħol u l-konverżazzjoni dwar il-qtil ta’ Daphne mhux ser inkompliha waħdi. Suġġett li għoddu għejjieni fil-kuntest tal-aljenazzjoni tal-poplu Malti, li ftit jemmen f’rivoluzzjoni u mhux protesta jew dimostrazzjoni bix-xemgħat.

Fl-aħħar ħadt togħoma tajba ta’ Brussell. Reuben dewwaqni ħafna inħawi mill-isbaħ. L-ewwel impressjonijiet ma kienu xejn tajbin. Ilmaħt il-belt marida mill-ħakma tal-istituzzjonijiet. Dak li Mario Vella jsejjaħlu qaħba li milli jkollha ttik. Żgħażagħ ambizzjużi għal karriera iżda mhux għal xi emozzjoni, relazzjoni jew kultura. Żgħażagħ għomja bil-wegħda tlellex ta’ appartament f’dil-belt.

Ix-xita bħal sprejj. Ma tieqaf qatt u bilkemm tinduna li qed ixxarbek. L-irxiex ma’ wiċċi jiddieħak bir-ristoranti tan-nofsinhar li jarmaw il-fannijiet biex itaffu s-sħana lill-klijenti.

Illum kelli aptitha. Xtaqtha ħdejja b’qalziet tal-paġama u l-flokk tal-qattus imdejjaq. Xtaqt ir-riħa tagħha terġa’ tinstalla ruħha fis-sistema. Xtaqt it-togħoma ta’ xufftejha f’nofs sentenza. Gost intellef il-kostruzzjoni ta’ sentenza b’bewsa.

Il-period wasal. Inqas stressjata għalkemm ix-xogħol ma jagħtix nifs. Kultant ma nifhimx xi jżommna milli naqilbu ħajjitna ta’ taħt fuq u nfittxu s-serenità minflok il-ġenn ta’ karriera inutli.

Miktuba 23 ta’ Ottubru 2017 fil-Belġju


Gent

My head hangs low, my body drenched. I feel my toes grip the slippery ground. Droplets trail down my face, shoulders, chest, penis, and feet before surrendering to the floor. Steam envelops me in this box where, for a fleeting moment, my body feels beautiful.

Today, I took myself to Gent. Reuben’s at work, and I can’t bring myself to continue the conversation about Daphne’s murder on my own. It’s a subject that drains me, tangled in the alienation of a Maltese people who hardly believe in revolution. A protest or a candlelit vigil is all they can muster.

I’ve finally got a good taste of Brussels. Reuben helped me see glimpses of its hidden beauty. My first impressions were grim, though—of a city choking under the grip of its institutions. What Mario Vella calls “a whore who offers nothing but what she has.” Young people here chase ambition, but not emotion. Not relationships, not culture. They’re blind to anything beyond the lure of a promised apartment in this city.

The rain falls like mist, never quite stopping. You barely notice how soaked you’re getting. The light drizzle on my face mocks those southern restaurants, with their fans spinning desperately to ease the heat for diners.

I craved her today. I wanted her here beside me, in her pyjama bottoms and that sad-cat T-shirt. I wanted her scent to root itself back in my system. I wanted the taste of her lips, mid-sentence. I love interrupting the construction of a thought with a kiss.

The cycle has arrived. She’s less tense now, though the work still takes its toll. Sometimes, I wonder what holds us back from flipping our lives upside down, abandoning this chaos of meaningless careers to search for serenity instead.

Written on October 23, 2017, in Belgium