Lonesome

I lie awake in an empty room

As traffic roars outside,

A need to vanquish this growing gloom,

In need to confide

I'm surrounded by familiar faces

But no one says a word

A million thoughts ,my mind races

To corners more absurd

The heavy silence drags a pause

As the wind heaves a sigh

My face is blank, I'm at a loss, 

I've lost the urge to try

Buried deep, beneath my core

I gasp for living air,

The strain of facing another day

Drowns me in despair

I blink twice and hold my breath,

my eyes beg to close,

Yet too alive to wish for death,

My misery only grows

A little voice whispers weak,

A secret in my ear,

The peace I  crave and deeply seek

Is shrouded by my fear

A lonesome tear fights the urge

To pour in dark defeat,

Fighting hard to embrace the surge

In hope of something sweet.

Castles and Waffles

 I winced and rubbed as the nippy air bit a raw chunk off my cheek. Three layers wrapped me tight in their warm embrace as I wobbled down the grey paths like a penguin in heat. I was literally standing in the smallest township on Earth, Durbuy. If excitement equaled warmth, I would be on fire right now!

Thick with trees and gaping travelers, this fairy-tale Walloon (distinctive community within Belgium) city sits smugly enchanting, 31 kilometers south of Liege, in the Belgian province of Luxembourg. My inundated senses struggle hard towards recovery, stunned by the virtual labyrinth of medieval fantasy that beckoned it forward.

Cobbled lanes shyly wound their ashen bodies through the majestic forest of towering cathedrals, belfries, and citadels, bashfully jumping over arches, canals, and stone bridges, leading me to their most private courts and secret gardens. Gladly seduced by every tiny gap discovered between these looming historic castles, I walked deeper into buttressed passages that silently promised hidden treasures (Disclaimer: multitasking starry-eyed daydreams whilst keeping a balance on steep, crooked European streets, proved harder than imagined). 

Every nook and cranny dangled colourful baskets of flowers that brightly popped through cavernous cracks in their vine-laced walls. Tucked within these spirited gullies lay a quaint scatter of cottage Pubs; their fires crackling loudly, as their walls rumbled deafeningly with contagious laughter that only bounced back to create further merry. I was hypnotized to invite myself in.


Blondes, ambers, pale lagers, fruity lambics and Flemish reds smiled down at me from their lofty shelves and frothy taps, sweetly beckoning me with their foamy tops. Justly famous for its brewing tradition, this cozy country has more than 100 breweries producing hundreds more in variety of brews. Needless to say, with so many choices, I was a tad worried on finding my favourite. The attraction was undeniably magnetic. I picked the vibrant kriek - its tart cherry flavour still alive in my fondest memories- it was, irrefutably, love at first sip.

Outside the sky was almost purple, streaked with a defiant orange beam peeking through the silver-lined clouds. Its warm red glow caressed my arm, painting me flushed with the shadow of its light. As I stepped out, a delicious waft tickled my resolve. I quickened my idle steps towards the gushing canals that flowed past the monumental square backed with perfect gingerbread houses. Rows of noisy stalls suddenly appeared, and along with them hoards of hungry people.

Refusing to feel left out I greedily ordered. One mountain of crispy frites (the original “french-fries”) generously topped with a customary peak of creamy mayonnaise; a delicious grid of fluffy waffles cooked to perfection, oozing smooth nutella (chocolate-hazelnut pâté) onto my drooling palate; and an assortment of chocolate armoured pralines with silky fondant hearts made up an extravagant feast.
I hid between the rows of tempting chocolateries, next to the chiming clock tower, stabbing my pink plastic fork into the ambrosia spread in front of me. A few dainty bites later, and then I gave in. With a shifty look here, and a mortified blush there, I viciously dug into the caramel gooeyness, decorum long snatched by a passing breeze.

Darkness crept in, as a dim congregation of lights winked cheerily into its gloom. A striped canvas flag whipped soundlessly to the drifting strums of a random guitar. Floating paper lanterns flickered to life, fighting for space with the leftover tinsel decorations. The wind whistled its shrill tune into my frosty ears, as I hummed in harmonious unison, perfectly content midst these intimate nooks filled with people toasting Durbuys’ beauty.