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Call me by your name

Last week, many new things made appearances into my life. A golden monkey statue, a spanking new nickname and zoom lens I place in front of my eyelids when moments of happiness occur. Like when a little girl was given a tiny cube of cheese by the market vendor and yelled: “Look mom, a piece of gold!” Or the birds singing, flowers blooming, drinking coffee on terraces: the beginning of spring.

I packed my backpack for a day out into town. City tripping in Brussels. Sunglasses, book, camera, tourist. I live here but I can travel anywhere. Soaking up the sun, forest wanders, starting a book I bought in Cumberland one year ago. I close my eyes and I’m back there. I live here but I can travel anywhere.

All I have to do is open the front door and run outside, or find little doors in my mind, always left ajar and waiting for me to walk through. Or hide away in someone else’s head. Pieces of art, gently picked ripe at the start of spring. Juicy fruits bloom, too good to walk away from. So you take a bite, sweet nectar running down your chin. Before you know it, you’re in. Completely taken away from the world outside, from what appears to be real.

Movies can do that to me. Especially the ones where you walk out of life as you know it at 5pm on a Tuesday afternoon. Into the dark, nearly empty space, itching to be filled with Italian words and dreamy images of sunsoaked summer love. I took off my shoes to really get into it. Make yourself at home. The chocolate I sunk my teeth in was the only thing keeping me in Belgium. My head, heart and soul were lost in the streets of Northern Italy.

The creek water felt refreshing, the tension tangible. I’m such a sucker for love. For Italy, gays, long, slow summer days and nights and films all the same. Call Me By Your Name left me in a hazy place for the rest of the day. I had just experienced an entire summer abroad, deep love and heart break all in two hours and a half. I couldn’t just walk out and be a part of Brussels.

It’s been one week now, and I still feel like I’m floating. My head lives in a constant bubble. There’s a fog on my lens I can’t seam to get rid of. I eat as much chocolate as I can, to try and feel Belgian again. But as soon as my eyes close, I’m laying on the grass in the sun, drinking Italian wine until I pass out and wake up in Brussels.

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