A glance at purgatory
Discover more from Vic Koopmans
I put down my pen, stretch and yawn. I’ve been a good boy living a structured life for a fortnight. Urges to be part of society for a brief moment force me outside. I allow myself a sneak peek at purgatory.
I shave off the beard and long grey hairs, reinvent my voice, open the blinds and turn on this magic device called phone. I have resurfaced from the depths of… Nonsense. It’s been two weeks. I’m going for a walk.
Chelsea boots, dark jeans, white T - same shirt, different day. Deodorant to ensure I smell the way I look and off I go. Exploring heights, jumping in the deep end.
The night is as per usual: short skirts, long queues. High heels, low desires. Flaws hidden, intentions accentuated. The 9 to 5 has ended, the masquerade has begun.
Raunchy lyrics can be heard in the surrounding area, bass can be felt. The hedonism craving pawns in the streets get lured in. Lucifer is calling.
As I’m about to forward the call to voicemail and return, an acquaintance salutes me. She’s standing next to the bouncer. I hug her and kiss her on the cheek. She smiles to the swole colouring page: rapid entrance.
That same smile grants her entry to the upper echelons of party purgatory, named V.I.P. I decline her invitation and we exchange numbers. She ascends to the promised land full of decently priced bottles of liquor and generally talkative and happy looking people.
I go on a sinner’s walkabout and immediately remember why I was so focused on work again. Without intoxication, clubs are a concept I have never truly enjoyed.
Walking through the dense crowd is like swimming in a pool of honey. Some drunk girl eyes me, but I abort before she can even think about calling me baby. Subwoofers rape my eardrums and stroboscopes make me wonder if I’d rather faint or have an epileptic seizure.
After five minutes of nodding along to redundant pretentiousness a random hipster is shouting into my ear, I leave. A shame that I won't be able to stand in line forever to buy an overpriced bottle of water. But, oh well, such in life.
Fresh air, no more earplugs, clear sight and a little something to align myself - artificial stoicism.
A message from the fallen angel in V.I.P. proposing a visit at sunrise. I smirk, tell her to text again once her liver is saturated and the lights go on and put my phone away.
As I walk on, a stranger runs up on me from behind. An attempt to take my phone from my pocket. Zippers prevent him from succeeding, knuckles on his eye socket prevent him from trying twice. So long to pacifism.
My assailant reconsiders his improvident plan and runs away from no-one in particular. Fleeing from a man that’s not chasing him.
I shrug my shoulders, smile and head home. Wherever that may be.
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