I miss Sundays in Antwerpen, staring out of the large thin iron-framed art deco windows from the apartment on the Frankrijklei, facing unto the baroque buildings on the Meer. Watching people walking: tourists, lovers walking hand in hand; A pause from the frantic pace of mass consumerism and its ravenous vapid consumption of time. Appreciating every second and minute of the day: especially so on grey overcast days. In the still quiet, Sunday morning, purchasing baguettes from Le Petite France. All this now appears so unassuming.
Strolling through the faceless haunted streets of the red light district, one might as well be living in the 19th century. Here, desire and fear afflict the faces of the predominantly Arabian men. The quiet walks, thoughts to contemplate and cultivate. The staring into windows of old dated bookstores. The narrow cobbled streets, the hush and quiet from the emotional rush, allows one to harvest one’s thoughts, gathering jewels from the pavements.
The ticking of the clock, the sounds of watches garners the ability to distil time and acquire a sense of the self. It enables one to gain an appreciation of life and the beauty that resides therein: to find beauty in simple objects. Life viewed as a work of art lived.
Hush, and listen to the cars crashing over the ridges on the elevated flyby. Hear the echoes of the hum of their engines fade into the distance. Taste the fumes and feel the ambient temperature. Sigh at the touch of the fresh air touching your face. Listen to the sound of the tram’s wheel clicking, click, clack clickity, clack, thap, thap, thap, thap…live, live life and appreciate the miracle therein, like the pleasure gained from the anticipation of touching skins.