Discover more from Vic Koopmans
It is late at night. I’m sat on top of a hill on a low brick wall. My feet dangling over the edge, my eyes wandering. From here I overlook the city that I’m about to say goodbye to.
The stars twinkle, so do the city lights. Turbulence in the atmosphere, turbulence in the nightlife. Everything continues as my Argentinian adventure comes to an end. In a moment I’ll be a foreign memory.
Another person will enter my apartment. Someone else shall take my seat in the cafe. Someone else will order my favourite lunch. A bunch of someone else's are already desperately texting my girl.
I let it all go. Choices made, consequences to carry. That’s what the shoulders and backpack are for.
My helmet laying next to me has a thin layer of dust on top of it. I wipe it off and feel how nostalgia starts seeping in. It always does. It’s inherent to the final minutes before departure.
I remember considering leaving this place upon arrival, now I’m considering reconsidering leaving.
Low temperatures, light rain and a bus driving through grey, disintegrating areas into a grey, disintegrating neighbourhood. The landlord of my crappy apartment was the definition of a four letter curse word. Not quite the best start. Who knew that shaking the hands of an Argentinian stranger a few days later would change all.
An Argentinian stranger that turned into a friend. And with that friendship an unknown world opened its doors. Recommendations to visit hidden gems, numerous anecdotes, endless invitations and the certainty that spare time was never spent indoors alone.
Months flew by. Months of work, structure, sunny weather, love that could have been, open-ended adventures, scenarios that played out different than hoped and living a life of a comfort that had vanished for years. It was the upgrade I had missed for so long.
“Good times,” I mumble.
I look at the sea of light beneath and before me. All houses seem to be shining bright, except for two. One’s resident has gone out, misbehaving. The other house has a beautiful human being inside of it, laying on her bed. I hope she’s happy, as free of worries as she told me she is. I hope she’s fast asleep, dreaming of all the amazing things she’s going to achieve.
I sigh and speak softly, “Gracias por todo, baby. Sos tan linda en cada sentido. Que siempre seas feliz.”
I listen to that scar covered organ under my chest, beating ever so vital. I tell myself that everything is fine. I tell myself that it is time to go.
I stand up and spread my arms, ready to embrace anything coming my way. Attempting to find myself, lost somewhere out in space.
A final glance at my former home. I start humming to the tune of life.
“And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time.”
My backpack strapped tight.
“’Til touchdown brings me ‘round again to find.”
I put on my noise cancelling space helmet. Muting all redundant opinions.
“I’m not the man they think I am at home.”
Flames coming from my jetpack.
“Oh, no, no, no.”
I lift off.
“I’m a rocket man.”
And I whisper:
“Rocket man, burning out his fuse up here alone.”
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