Can’t touch this…
In our office, there is a bulky, curious typewriter. Apparently, at some point in history, someone
found it necessary to plant the piece of machinery right in the middle of our already cramped
office. It was already here when I moved in, and it has been there ever since. Where did this
mechanical fossil come from? I haven’t got the foggiest idea.
Although the typewriter obviously hasn’t been used for ages, we aren’t allowed to move
it. No, we shan’t touch the monstrosity, god forbid. Thou shalt not move this huge, green
typewriter. Trust me, I have tried to throw out this obstacle earlier. I can’t move it. Not only was I
scolded and scowled at by different people when I tried (who, after asking, couldn’t give me any
indication as to where the thing came from or why it should remain in my office) but the thing is
also much too heavy to lift anyway.
I can’t help but keep wondering what it is here for. Is it some sort of sacred relic from the
past, of which the other people in the building have yet failed to show me its mystical
significance? Is it a memento of a jolly good colleague who passed away much too early in his
promising literary career? Is it perhaps a symbol of great inspiration that has carried many
through the darkest of days, reminding them never to lose hope?
The true meaning of the hulking green typewriter has continued to evade me to this day.
My co-editor suggested that I should give the illustrious machine a new purpose: therefore, it
now serves to decorate this issue’s cover.
Lester Hekking, editor
Write for us!
We are in dire need of new staff writers and
poems or stories. Send in your poems and
stories to: [email protected]
To submit your work anonymously:
You can send in submissions anonymously by
using [email protected] with the
following password: anonymous.
What’s in store?
Lester Hekking
Daria Meijers, Rosy Piets
Contributors to this issue:
Daria Meijers, Rosy Piets, Sia Hermanides,
Matthijs Bockting, Pia Pol, Oscar Mulders,
Veerle Verbeeten, Wouter Helmond, Rudolph
The Writer’s Block is an Amsterdam-based
magazine in English for students interested in
writing, literature and film, released four times
each academic year. Copies can be picked up
from the Bungehuis, P.C. Hoofthuis,
Oudemanhuispoort, or American Book
Center at the Spui. A digital PDF-version can
be obtained by subscribing, by sending an
email to [email protected].
Poetry Contest
The Punishers
The White Screen
She didn’t open her eyes
The Written Word
Our adress:
The Writer’s Block
Bungehuis Room 512
Spuistraat 210
1012 VT Amsterdam
Next issue’s deadline:
Submit before the 10th of September, 2008.
ISSN: 1876-0295 (Digital version)
The Writer’s Block Poetry Contest
Do you like to play with the English language? Do you like the chance of fame and 50 Euros
more in your wallet? Enter the First Writer’s Block poetry contest! We are always looking for
your creative takes on different forms or themes, and this time it’s the sonnet.
The Sonnet
Usually addressed to a remote love object and often also thematizing the act of writing
itself (e.g. how it eternalises the beloved), the sonnet proper is 14 lines long and written in
iambic pentameter (which means ten or eleven syllables per line with mostly alternating
stresses). The most common variant in English is the Shakespearean one: three quatrains
and a final couplet following the rhyme scheme abab cdcd efef gg. There are also some
other English and some more challenging Italian sonnet forms to choose from.
We expect you to pick one of them and – this is a rule of the game – to deviate from it
only if your deviation is clearly justified by your content. Below is an example for such a
deviation. Rupert Brooke puts the final couplet first and then tells you what happens after
the period of courtship that conventional sonnets are usually about:
“Sonnet Reversed”
Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights
Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights.
Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon!
Soon they returned, and, after strange adventures,
Settled at Balham by the end of June.
Their money was in Can. Pacs. B. Debentures,
And in Antofagastas. Still he went
Cityward daily; still she did abide
At home. And both were really quite content
With work and social pleasures. Then they died.
They left three children (besides George, who drank):
The eldest Jane, who married Mr. Bell,
William, the head-clerk in the County Bank,
And Henry, a stock-broker, doing well.
For a standard sonnet, look at Shakespeare’s “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day”. For
another way of having fun with the conventional flattering commonplaces at his “My mistress’
eyes are nothing like the sun”. You can also move away from the love subject altogether. There
are no rules about theme or content this time, and your poems can be serious, humorous, sad,
anything else (even rude), or all of the above – as long as they are recognizably sonnets. You can
also parody an existing work.
Again, in brief, we’re looking for sonnets in English that you wouldn’t mind to be put in the first
autumn issue of The Writer’s Block. We are offering you a chance of publication and 50 Euros for
the winner. The jury will include members from the UVA’s English Department.
This is an opportunity to 1) practice your English, 2) perhaps make some money, 3) do
something beautiful this summer. So don’t miss it!
The Punishers
The Punishers is a short novella by Lester Hekking that is published serially.
Chapter 4 - The Temple
The bunch stood in the queue for about fifteen minutes before making it to the entrance of The
Temple. Chris and Steve strategically walked behind Martin because their clean-shaven faces
looked somewhat too young. Their hearts were pounding quickly. If the bouncer noticed they
were underage, they would screw things up for the whole group. The worst consequence of
blowing it was having to deal with an angry Bobby; there wasn’t a better way to ruin a night out.
“Ho, ho, wait a second,” asked the bouncer, “how much of you are there?” He blocked
their way rather menacingly.
“Ho, ho?” imitated Bobby. “Are you Santa Claus or something?”
The bouncer, a few inches taller than Bobby, wasn’t exactly amused.
“Sorry pal, what did you just say?”
Steve’s hope died in his chest. Bobby just had to spoil it for everyone. Luckily, Chris
immediately rebuked Bobby. “Behave yourself, idiot.” Chris noticed that the bouncer was
frowning because of the Santa-remark. He had to rely on his smooth talking ability to save Bobby
from trouble.
“Sir, we apologize for our friend’s
misbehaviour. He meant to be funny but failed
miserably. He won’t cause any trouble on the dance
floor, I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”
Bobby scowled at Chris. The bouncer, whose
eyes had wandered off to Lisa’s short skirt during
Chris’s apology, seemed convinced.
“All right,” he growled. “You watch that big
mouth of yours next time, fat boy.”
The bouncer cut his eyes at Bobby. Chris
pulled him along by his arm.
Inside, they all speeded through the door
until they reached the metal detector arch. An
eccentric-looking guy before them passed through
the arch and chuckled when the machine buzzed at his six facial piercings. Everyone took their
keys, coins, mp3-players and cell phones from their pockets and walked through the frame.
The machine buzzed when Chris stepped through, because he forgot to take his titanium
rings off. The security guard searched Chris, found nothing and let him through, but also halted
Steve to check his backpack. He zipped open Steve’s backpack and peeked inside.
“It’s only a sweater, sir.”
Steve noticed how his ability to lie had improved since he had started hanging out with
the bunch.
Near the dance floor, you had to speak up because of the loud music; a night spent in
The Temple usually meant a hoarse voice for the rest of the weekend.
“Chris!” Bobby yelled, “Chris, you fucking art-faggot! Why did you humiliate me like that
in front of that stupid Santa loser?”
“Steve noticed
how his ability to
lie had improved
since he had
started hanging
out with the
Martin came carrying a tray with five glasses of beer on it. “Cheers, all of you! The odds
were against us.” They raised their glasses and sipped from their beer.
“Hey Martin. I feel like dancing,” Lisa said. Martin followed her and they blended into the
crowd on the dance floor.
To escape from the awkwardness and hostility that still lingered between Bobby and
Chris, Steve changed the subject.
“Hey guys. Where does Martin get all that money from? Do you have any idea?”
Chris, with his frowning gaze still fixed on Bobby, replied, “Well, Martin does some jobs
for those guys you just saw in the alleyway, you know.”
“Those ‘jobs’ involve bringing locked briefcases from one address to another,” said
Bobby, “for absurdly high sums of money.”
“And some nice perks such as the occasional free tickets,” Chris chuckled.
Because the conversation lacked substance, Chris lighted a cigarette while Steve ordered
another tray of beer. It didn’t take long for Chris to completely forget why he was angry with
Bobby. With all glasses empty, it was Bobby’s turn to buy beer now. Then it was Chris’s. Then
Steve’s again. Then Bobby’s.
When they ran out of money, they retrieved Steve’s backpack from the wardrobe and
smuggled the rolled-up sweater inside it to the
toilet. With all three of them in an uncomfortable,
cramped stall, they guzzled the vodka-orange mix.
Soon, they felt energetic and happy. The alcohol
had removed all awkwardness, and the bunch was
ready to dance.
Moments later, they found themselves in
the midst of the dancing crowd, and started
moving their bodies to the music. Bobby and
Chris shamelessly ogled all women nearby.
While officially you had to be twenty-one
to enter the Temple, there seemed to be many
seventeen year-old girls around. Most of them
were aware of the latest trends and dressed
seductively. Chris lighted another cigarette and
attempted to establish eye contact with some Italian looking guy’s girlfriend.
Just when Steve believed he had spent all his money, he found a two-euro coin tucked
away in his pocket and smiled. That’s a beer for me, he thought.
He quietly proceeded towards the bar and ordered a beer. His eyes caught sight of a girl
with long blonde hair, a few inches shorter than him, dressed in sexy tight jeans and a green
blouse. She ordered a drink and it seemed like she flashed a smile at Steve, although Steve wasn’t
entirely sure whether her smile was directed at him.
Steve watched the girl dance her way into the crowd again carrying her passoa and was
astonished. It wasn’t the beer. It was the way she moved.
“That’s two euros please.”
“With all three of
them in an
cramped stall, they
guzzled the vodkaorange mix.”
Steve’s thoughts were still floating about.
“Hey boy? Two euros please.”
He returned to reality and handed over the coin. Sipping from his beer rather
absentmindedly, he believed he should return to the others soon. He drained his glass while he
replayed the bar scene in his mind. Then he rejoined Chris, who was leaning against a large pillar,
smoking cigarette after cigarette.
“Hey Steve, where the hell were you?” Chris asked.
“Me? Uh— I went to the toilet,” Steve lied.
He caught sight of the green-bloused girl
again. She was talking to Martin. Perhaps she was a
friend of Lisa’s? From the corner of his eye, Steve
could see Chris blowing rings of cigarette smoke.
Chris, being a sharp observer, soon noticed
who Steve was looking at and said, “Steve, you
really fancy her, don’t you?” Steve blushed as Chris
“Give it up, Steve. She’s too hard-to-get.”
At half past two, Martin and Lisa returned.
“I’ve got to bring Lisa home,” Martin said,
“I’ll give you a call when I’m done. See ya, dudes.”
Steve and Chris waved Martin and Lisa goodbye and started looking for Bobby. He was
leering at some girl who obviously didn’t quite enjoy it.
“Care for some fresh air, Bobby?” Chris asked.
“Ugh,” Bobby grunted, “the women here are all frigid whores. Let’s leave.”
“Sure. Let’s go to your place, Bobby.”
As they went outside, they coincidentally met Derek, Bobby’s older cousin. He was taller
than Bobby, had semi-long dark brown hair and wore stylish Ray-Ban glasses. They didn’t,
however, succeed in covering up his drugged, blood-shot eyes.
“Hey, Bobby! What’s up, man?” Bobby shook his hand and grinned.
“Derek! I haven’t heard anything of you in ages, you old four-eyed faggot. What’s your
business in Amsterdam?”
He patted Derek on the back somewhat too violently.
“Well, I was having a lousy night out, just like you,” Derek laughed. “Listen, I just
realized I missed the last train,” he said. Could I stay at your place until nine in the morning?”
“That can be arranged,” he replied, “we were just leaving. Come with us now, or sleep on
the pavement.”
“Wow, Bobby,” Chris remarked, “you actually just uttered a sentence void of
They all laughed.
Derek joined them. They searched the bushes next to the bench where they had been
sitting on earlier and realized that the bottle of vodka they had concealed there was gone.
“That lowlife bastard took it!” Bobby raged, “we should’ve wasted him!”
“Wow, Bobby,”
Chris remarked,
“you just uttered a
sentence void of
Persepolis ●●●●○
Directed by Marjane Satrapi
Persepolis is animation film that follows the
Iranian-born Marjane Satrapi who grows up in a
progressive family during the Islamic Revolution of
1979. It is a wonderful adaptation of the successful
autobiographic graphic novel of the same name.
Except for the political dimensions of the film, the film also contains an intimate coming-of-age
story that deals both humorously and seriously with love, sex and growing up. We follow Marjane
Satrapi during her childhood and teen years: from a little, adorable girl she turns into a loveable,
self-conscious teenager. While Marjane struggles against oppression in Iran, she later travels to
Austria and has to deal with a new-found, contrasting amount of freedom there instead.
The beautiful, simple drawings of the graphic novel happily survive into the film.
Especially memorable are the chador-clad fundamentalist women, who slither through the screen
like snakes in their black robes.
Persepolis is entertaining and moving at the same time. It also succeeds in sketching a
comprehensive picture of recent (Iranian) history.
Persepolis is currently playing in Rialto. (
Big pretentions, bad film.
by Matthijs Bockting
10.000 B.C. ●○○○○
Directed by: Ronald Emmerich
With: Steven Straight, Camilla Belle, Cliff Curtis
10,000 B.C. tells the story of D'leh, a hunter,
whose father ran away when he was a little boy.
D'leh is in love with Evolet and when she's
kidnapped by a couple of bad-asses, D'leh travels
around half of the world to rescue her. The spiceless plot is just one of the film’s many flaws.
The film is narrated by a voice-over that keeps telling us more ridiculous things by the minute.
Moreover, the story is rather predictable and the dialogues make you cringe from time to time
because of their stupidity. Director Ronald Emmerich deliberately chose to work with lesserknown actors, so the audience wouldn't be watching “Johnny Depp and Natalie Portman hunting
for a mammoth”. But these actors fail to cover up for the bad screenplay.
Emmerich was probably hoping that his visual effects would baffle the audience so they’d
forget the film’s many flaws. In some ways the visual effects are stunning - a big wet tiger and a
great shot of a herd of mammoths on the run- but too often you're aware of watching a picture
made mostly by a computer. If he would’ve paid some more attention to the storyline and
dialogues and a little less attention to pretentious visual effects and Lord of the Rings-like
overview shots, he could have made something worth watching. Now it's just like you're
watching a comedy, but instead of making you laugh this film makes you want to cry.
10.000 B.C. is currently playing at Pathé Arena and Pathé de Munt.
The White Screen
A timeless tale of oppression and freedom
By Sia Hermanides
She Didn’t Open Her Eyes
A short story by Wouter Helmond
“My, my, why you cry?” Tears drop drippingly from the face of a man who isn’t really weeping.
At least not for the reason he should. Slowly one tear after the other falls, vaporising before
hitting the ground. The feeling of regret, the feeling of sorrow, the feeling of frustrated anger, the
feeling of loss, they aren’t present. Will they ever be present? They should have struck by now,
like a shelve that suddenly collapsed under the weight it’s carrying, hitting you with the stuff that
was on there. But the tears aren’t that heavy. A reaction, some reaction should have been
provoked by now. The tears aren’t for or because of someone else.
“You have got no reason to cry. All you ever did was pry.” The tears are for yourself. You
know that. You never cared for the dead. Just like you’re not caring now. Not even for the one
you once called ‘the purest creation of a loveable loving luscious lady who gives me complete and
utter satisfaction and joy in life.’ Although you said it and acted as if it were so, somehow
everybody knew that sincere words could never escape from your lips.
“So how come you are crying?” It surely
isn’t for this young woman here before you,
lying lifeless in this light brown wooden coffin.
Her dark red hair lying restless waiting for a
breeze. Her once so colourful skin has lost all
complexion. Kissable lips have lost the longing
to be touched by other lips. Her eyes will make
no more impressions of the world. Her tender
body will never experience the joys of life
anymore. The music that she requested to be
playing falls on dead ears. She will never
experience the joys of life anymore. Her having
lost all spontaneity. She just lies there like a sack
of shit. A heap of human waste.
“Get it together man. It’s not like you’ll miss her!” You’re hoping that she won’t look
back in anger. It is not like this was your intention. Wasn’t it? Or was it? You did become a
liability. You are looking back in anger. How could she have been so stupid? So careless? So
sleeping? So carefree? All she ever wanted was to live. All she ever did was drag you along
experiencing life. All she ever did was make you feel great. You just realised why you’re crying.
For no matter how great the ride was, all you ever wanted to do was to… What did you want to
do anyway? But it’s okay now. The ride is over.
“You bastard! You goddamn fuckin’ asshole! You fuckin’ appendix!” You’re goddamn
crying because you can no longer be the person that you’re best at. Her humble honourable
husband, her counterpart, her completion of life, her comfort, her arms of sympathy, her arms of
empathy, her sexual satisfaction, her inspiration, her peace and quiet. She was the last beautiful
girl, and it made you feel good that her feeling greatly depended on you. You’ll miss the feelings
she gave you in return.
“You of all people should understand an urge.” Sometimes you’re mind just starts
wondering. In the middle of the night, you suddenly wake up for no reason at all. So you’re lying
“The music that she
requested to be
playing falls on dead
ears. She will never
experience the joys of
life anymore.”
there, wide-awake in bed, and you can’t fall back to sleep. You turn and turn, but nothing
happens. Your eyes are opened, staring at the ceiling, seeing you sleeping in the light that falls
through the creek between the curtains. The light softly caressed your slumbering skin. You were
naked that night. Beautifully uncovered. Except for your feet, they were always cold. A shadow
fell over your body, stroking you unnoticeably. In her neck, the shadow looked like hands. Just as
you noticed, she gasped for air, as if being choked. You started wondering what it would be like,
choking someone. Before you released it, your hands had become the shadow. At first, you gave
no pressure. She moved slightly in her sleep. It appeared as if she fought back. Disappointed that
she didn’t, you began to apply pressure. She began moaning and moving her body, but she didn’t
wake up. Frustrated by her unsatisfying reaction, you firmed you grip even more. Still she didn’t
wake up. She only tried to grasp for air.
With much difficulty, you might add. Her
body shook even more. Why didn’t she
open her eyes? You needed something to
stop you. Her opening her eyes might have
done the trick. But she didn’t. Her
unconsciousness was fighting back, so why
didn’t her consciousness? Where were her
survival instincts? If only she would have
opened her eyes in time. Although you
immediately let go when she finally opened
her eyes, hoping that she would be fine, it
was already too late. For she only opened
her eyes to release her soul.
“The time has come to go. I’m done crying for myself. Maybe next time I cry for you.”
They want an explanation. So they can understand why I did it. So they can label me a deviant.
But how could they understand an urge, a sudden impulse. There is no reason. It just happened.
You were probably the only person who could understand that itching sensation of a sudden
impulse. No other like you was all urge and desire.
In the coffin, at her feet, lies a blanket, as instructed in her will. She is cold everywhere
and uncovered. The dress she’s wearing was her favourite. Simple, delicate and lovely, like she
was. With my cuffed hands, I reach for the blanket. It’s soft, precisely the way she would have
liked it. I only pull the blanket over her feet.
“You were naked that
night. Beautifully
uncovered. Except for
your feet, they were
always cold.”
The Written Word
Book Tip – Less Than Zero by Brett Easton Ellis
Written while he was 21 years old and still in college, Less Than Zero
is Brett Easton Ellis’ debut novel that shocked its readers deeply
when it was first published in the eighties. The novel portrays a
morally bankrupt group of teenagers living in Los Angeles,
corrupted by the excessive luxury and decadence their rich
Hollywood parents have raised them in.
Protagonist and college student Clay has just returned to his hometown
Los Angeles for a two-week winter break. Most of the time, Clay hangs
around rather aimlessly, going to parties and doing drugs. He runs into his
ex-girlfriend Blair, and somewhat half-heartedly resumes his relationship with her, unsure
whether he really loves her. As Clay also attempts to restore his friendship with childhood friend
Julian, a series of traumatizing events unfolds, leading him to leave Los Angeles forever.
Besides being the main character, Clay is also the focalizer of the novel. Between the
novel’s short chapters, he regularly reflects on his past in Los Angeles in flashbacks, written in
italics. His passive, lethargic behavior can be annoying at times, but successfully illustrates the
moral deterioration that endless hours of idleness have bred in him.
Less Than Zero’s non-sympathetic characters and the bleak, depressing scenery that Brett
Easton Ellis sketches may repel some readers. Moreover, the novel’s style has been criticized for
being too staccato and journalistic. It is this very non-complex style, however, that keeps the
novel well-readable, and as a warning of the dangers that nihilistic lifestyles can bring
contemporary America, Less Than Zero stands firm.
Oscar Mulders
Book Tip – Tirza by Arnon Grunberg
Tirza is the latest novel by Arnon Grunberg, for which he has been
awarded both the Gouden Uil and the Libris literary Award.
Grunberg’s work is known and praised for its honest, shocking and
moving style. With Tirza, he demonstrates his talent once more. The
beautifully formulated thoughts and truth’s of life, that Tirza’s main
characters express, are able to make you laugh, while at the same
time leave you with a discomforting, almost sad feeling.
Jörgen Hofmeester is standing in his kitchen, making sushi and sashimi for
the farewell party of his youngest daughter Tirza, who has just graduated
and is bound for Africa in a few days. We enter the life of the family
Hofmeester at a significant point. After the night of the party, things take a turn for the worse.
There is only one person in Hofmeester’s life that really matters to him. That is his daughter
Tirza, the “sun queen”, as he calls her. He has high expectations of her, devastatingly high
expectations. He doesn’t have high expectations of his wife, whom he calls “the spouse”, nor of
his other daughter Ibi. They have left him both. It is just him and Tirza now, a loving father,
taking care of his brilliant daughter. Everything is okay, Hofmeester is in control. But then, a
sequence of events follows that starts making visible cracks in the mask of the civilized, normal
man he was so careful to keep up all his life. A few days before the party, “the spouse” comes
back unexpectedly. Tirza’s party is a disaster and something breaks beyond repair in the fatherdaughter relationship. And, perhaps worst of all, the boyfriend who will take his Tirza away from
him, to go to Africa, turns out to be Mohammed Atta. Then Hofmeester loses control.
Unfortunately enough for our English readers, Tirza is still only available in Dutch.
Veerle Verbeeten
Non-fiction Review: Chris Nieratko’s Skinema
Skinema is the latest book in the Vice series. Vice magazine has
released this book by one of their reviewers; Chris Nieratko, whom
you may know as 'that guy from Jackass who ate eggs until he
puked'. After his short career on the infamous MTV show, Niertako
picked up his old job of writing porn flick reviews. These ‘reviews’
have now been collected in one book: Skinema.
Now, as most of us aren't interested in 300 pages of pornographic
reviews, fortunately enough, Nieratko is not your everyday porn reviewer
(if those even exist). Skinema is actually a collection of autobiographical
columns, sarcastically built around titles of porn films he isn’t really reviewing. The book is split
up into four parts: part one is about the author's younger years, the second part is about the
author on drugs, the third part is about married life and the fourth part is filled with pictures
which illustrate the stories told in the first three parts. Nieratko's style of writing is very direct and
he can sometimes be brutal when expressing his opinions. But as always, this man falls in love
with the woman of his dreams. And so it is in part three that he calms down and takes up a
friendlier tone. The author seems to be really into himself and not so much into women, until of
course he meets his wife.
Nieratko’s degrading tone is mildly amusing at first but gets old quite quickly. This
statement can be applied on the entire book: it is fun at first but you lose interest soon. Nieratko
is so full of himself that by the last 50 pages I was wishing something bad would happen to him.
This book is targeted at a male audience, but I think that if women simply stopped reading when
they get annoyed with Chris Nieratko, it could be fun for them as well.
Pia Pol
The World Lies At My Feet…
Sometimes I lie awake at night, sick with worries. The streets
have gone silent and the city is like a scene from 28 Days Later.
In the midst of this peace and quiet I cannot lie still. It isn’t the
coffee I know I drank too late. The reason for my insomnia is
the fact that the world lies at my feet. It is the most maddening
and horrendous thought there is.
Nearly having finished my studies, I realized the other
day that in a couple of months I will be able to do what I
please. It gives me chills running down my spine. Never in my
life have I made long term plans while knowing I can actually
carry them through. Yet the most stressful part is that I am
short of time. My life is too short for my plans or rather my
plans are too abundant. As usual, when I encounter a problem,
I turned to Stalin, and consequently decided to make a 5 year
plan. And so in the coming 5 years I have to have been a
stewardess, acquired the Swedish language in its entirety, read
every book a self respecting person has to have read, seen every
film that is on the 250 top-rated movies list, done a
season of ski-teaching, spent a year in Australia, made The
Writers’ Block cooler than Vice, written a play and found the
love of my life. It’s doable. My life will look like a macro
version of my days - a sequence of overlapping appointments -,
and I might every now and then wish to be in the possession of
Hermione Granger’s time-turner, but it is doable. People say I
should relax and that I have my entire life before me. But it
isn’t like that, because in 5 years I will be old and when you’re
old, the world isn’t at your feet anymore.
Sooner than you think, you will hear yourself say: “Oh,
I wish I would’ve gone to Australia. Well, maybe when the kids
have moved out...” But we all know it’s never going to happen.
Once you’ve settled down, you can’t settle up anymore. That’s
why I have to do it all now, and that’s why I can’t afford to
waste a single second. Who could bear the thought of wasting
time by lazily lying in bed and merely thinking about your life,
while you should be out being young? I’m glad that in 5 years I
will be 26 and I will have done everything that’s on my list.
Then it’s time to sit back, relax, move to the country and enjoy
my life in peace.
Rosy Piets
By Daria Meijers