Onze lieve vrouwkerk

Dear reader,

You join me in my favourite square in Maastricht- Onze Lieve Vrouwplein. I had wanted to write this in the church, but the door was locked and a man was asleep outside on the benches where the “Sterre de Zee” lies.

The bells just struck 6pm, and the wind is roaring. My hair feels a mess, something that has plagued me all day, and I can hear the faint sounds of Italian music in my ears- the “Uomo Donna” album, by Andrea Laszlo de Simone, accompanied by some background chatter of people enjoying themselves and glasses clinking. Then there’s the wind, of course.

This entry might be a little funky. Every few moments, my brain jumps from wanting to write in English, to French, to Spanish, to Italian and beyond.

I was perhaps naïve in thinking that I had solved my quarter-life crisis in the ways that always cured teenage depression cycles. I wrote lists and changed my ways and habits and met new standards and did more.

Frankly, that is exactly how I expect this very entry to go as well. This morning, in a similar introspective mood, I wrote a rather stormy post intended for my blog. Writing has become a great joy of mine in recent months, as a means of expressing myself when feeling down or lost. It’s a shame that I never write when I’m happy, however I never seem to think of it.

The truth is, I am happy. Well, at least I think I am. I have, on paper, everything that I need. A nice flat, an income, a few friends and a few people that I see everyday; just enough money. I like Maastricht; I do not feel particularly bored, however I do often feel confused— not from a lack of clarity, but something else, though I don’t know what that is yet (yes, I realise the irony!)

It’s autumn and I love the colours, but I’ve only got a t-shirt on, and I’m shivering, so I’m sorry in advance if the handwriting get’s progressively worse from here. I suppose by writing…

Right, well, I’m home now some thirty minutes later, and much warmer. I was never able to finish my sentence, because a lovely, eccentric-looking young lady with a Scottish accent approached me. I know nothing of her, apart from that she has lived in Amsterdam for the past 15 years and was looking to study music at the conservatory next year.

She was slim, and pale, with crooked teeth much like mine and a brown fur coat.

I know not why she approached me, apart from to say “well you look rather interesting”. She had a strange attitude about her, one that leads me to suspect that she may have been mildly autistic, and looking to talk to somebody.

Like some marvellous Scottish guardian-angel, some Amy Pond, some British-Dutch miracle incarnation she broke my negative chain of thoughts, and although my brain felt reluctant, my tongue and equally lips seemed to run ahead in forming the responses to her bold questions.

I told her of my day and of my melancholy, and she listened and inquired and listened some more — I could hardly get a question in myself.

Upon arriving home, my questions are not answered, only they have doubled, tripled, multiplied tenfold.

I don’t even know the question that I am trying to answer anymore. Who do I truly wish to be? I don’t mean a haircut or a new pair of boots or a good listener. Why am I actually here and what good can I give to the world?

If I truly do believe that my study is a waste of time, and that I will surely be miserable during and after its completion, why do I continue with it?

And yet despite such motivations that I have to build a business, or businesses, and help the world, I know that failure is most probably, and that if I do not ruin it for myself, surely outside forces will. Then again, is a degree even true stability?

If I continue, then in one year’s time I will be off to explore another city on Erasmus- something that I feel I might rather like to do on my own anyway.

Am I just lonely, in search of a friend who will do these things with me?

Am I just living to please others, or am I really doing things for myself?

Recently, my happiest experiences have been with Sebastian and Alex, building and planning business. I feel so alive doing these things, I feel as if my voice really matters, and when I speak people listen. I feel that my work there might actually be recognised in the real world, and it might actually be held to some sort of tangible standard, not just some arbitrary figure like a number based on some criteria and an opinion of whether I did well or not from somebody whom, as equally adult as myself, seems to feel that just because I write or speak or learn differently my work is inferior.

How disappointing!

AJR- Maastricht, 2025