Ever since I moved here, sleep seems to be something to catch up on when I’m old and living on the countryside. Many years from now, I can doze off in my rocking chair overlooking the fields, because there is no party pulling my sleeve for attention.
Last year I learnt a very important new word, which I added to my vocabulary immediately. It is this: JOMO. The Joy Of Missing Out. The existence of this word brings peace to my mind. At the time I heard about JOMO, I was living on Vancouver Island, slow paced, savouring moments in nature. Now I live in a city, JOMO is not a word I use a lot anymore. Brussels is buzzing with energy and events, and I want to be a part of it all.
When three parties are happening at the same time, I will ride my bike around, dressed up in freakshow outfit for a birthday party. I dance to jazz on a Brownswood evening and then I’m off to a techno club to see DJ Lexis. The night never ended and the freakshow clothes felt out of tune wherever I rocked up but in my mind Brussels was one big festival that night, riding my bike between dance floors.
It’s summertime so the days start early. Birds are singing songs of fresh new days while I’m still collecting all the sweat I can in dark clubs. Dirty little clubrat! Sunglasses are always on when I find my way home in the bright sunlight. Oh, the Walks Of Shame! Clothes smelling like too many parties in one night, hair is a mess and when you look at yourself in a mirror for the first time in what feels like six years, you realise you’re a mess too.
It’s all about balance, so I treat myself to a fancy fruit breakfast filled with vitamins when I get home at 10 am. Some for the body, some for the soul. I shower the night off my tired body and hop on a train to Ghent for some psychedelic dancing. Jacuzzi Boys, beers, head banging, sweating and it’s another night of festivalling. On my way home, I stop on top of a hill overlooking Brussels. The city looks beautiful under a clear starry sky. A saxophonist plays love songs to our city, a couple dances on the steps and my head fills up with sweet memories. Taking the long way home, thinking of Brussels, singing where the sax left off: killing me softly with his song.