Writing
For years now, I have putting off writing. Actual writing, not journaling, blogging, writing about what I do. I mean the kind of writing that was the sole reason for me studying journalism. The kind of writing that made me pursue poetry, short stories, big stories (that I never finished). So here, I want to start writing again. Some snippets, a small poem, a start to something. Sometimes English, sometimes Dutch. Just start. Write. Don’t think too hard.
11-07-2025
She was cold. She didn’t feel cold, but her internal systems registered a decrease of temperature and suggested ways to mitigate this, citing the risks of hypothermia for specifically her older version of android assistant. Stubbornly she ignored the warning messages echoing
29-06-2025
Ultimately there really wasn’t a point to all the effort. But, the knight thought, straightening his shoulders, planting his feet in the ground, finding his center. But. Maybe. We can still win. He didn’t really consider the fact that they had been surrounded. That these things, these moving, shifting things*, that he couldn’t start to describe otherwise, hadn’t been picking off his men one by one. He knew in the pit of his stomach, that they could only die here. But to consider that would somehow be worse than to die quickly. Or so he told himself. As he lifted his sword in front of him, he tried to focus hard on the edge and the point of it. It was hard, it hurt, to focus on them. The enemy was like a hole, a window pane, a look into, at something, that you weren’t meant to ever see. He gripped his blade, stepped forward, let his instincts catch a move of one of the things, and take a swing at its sickening passage through the foggy air. He felt a hate rise up, almost like a heat, a glaring sun, passing the side he now had his sword pointing down at. He considered if it meant he had hurt the thing. Maybe it couldn’t be hurt. Maybe it hated that he even had the gall to try and hurt it. In the fog, the sounds of his men crying out and screaming, like no screams the knight had ever heard. They sounded smothered, instantly far away, the moment they made a sound. The knight heard a constant, off-rythm sound. He barely realised it was him shaking in his armor. He moved like he knew he could: he dodged, parried, sliced, struck. It wasn’t really about hurting them. It was about staying sane. He caught himself humming the song of the gulls, the song of his hometown, the one about the ocean, the song his mother taught him. He gripped her warrior sword tighter, let his voice rise with each swing and strike he took. Through the fog, a single ray of pale sunlight shone through and glinted in his eye. Maybe, he prayed. Maybe.