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  • At a moment when you've travelled Europe for 5 months, passed exams at two cities, wrote papers and did presentations, went into neighbourhoods that were deemed top 1% of the most dangerous places in the country, saw concerts in nice bars, and drank ridiculously expensive beers in others, at the moment when you know there are still months of this ahead, a road that will take you to the Baltics, Sweden and Russia, across half a continent, with more exams, papers and presentations in other cities to follow, you might feel awfully cosmopolitan (part of a highly mobile creative class that is proven to exist in the solipsist mind of guru's like Richard Florida), but you are as tiny and futile as the ant you just squished under your foot.

    Contrary to that ant, you can't carry several times your own weight, although the burden sometimes feels that way.

    I am staring at my screen, not knowing how to react to an e-mail I've just received from my father, back home in Belgium. We knew things were getting worse with my grandma, but now that she's quickly sinking into a total state of oblivion, now that my grandpa – a tall, grey man with the demeanour of the strong, silent type – has uttered the words in tears, it's definitive. We've lost her, she's never coming back. He's going to spend some time alone on this planet, soon. And I am still stuck here in this country, hoping my thoughts and feelings will be carried by the winds. And I need to continue reading Henri Lefèbvre's The Production Of Space. And I should focus on that thesis proposal right now (to be handed in Saturday before midnight). And I still don't know how to react to that e-mail.

    Nor what to feel exactly.
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