Saliendo
Discover more from Vic Koopmans
Drinking, it’s been a while. I rarely drink. I can do without the additional hangover. Last time around I was swimming with the caipirinhas in Rio de Janeiro, now I’m standing on a rooftop in Paraguay’s capital, Asunción.
Reggaeton penetrates the earplugs, making the head burst. Unfortunately the current level of Spanish is good enough to grasp the lyrics, emphasising my first world problems.
Daddy Yankee and Bad Bunny tell me I should give a fuck less, spend more and that true happiness can be found by rubbing the fabric of my jeans against the fabric of a dress worn by a member of the fairer sex. Words of wisdom.
I glance at the dance floor full of potential futures. I do not care. They lack the totality. I answer the looks of interest with the blankest stare imaginable.
“No disponible esta noche,” I mumble.
A sip of a Long Island Iced Tea tends to work like a mental hitman, a smooth criminal. Four types of liquor burn their way down my esophagus. Another glance, another attempt: still bleak. I want a refund.
My crotch starts ringing, my bladder is calling.
The man in front of me at the urinal is making use of his bank card. He’s cutting in lines, creating a shortcut to temporary relief. A transaction he’ll pay for later on. I decline the offer to accompany him in his madness, enjoy some aquatic liberation and walk outside again.
An unwanted hand on my buttocks gets removed, whispered words remain unanswered. It’s my cue to ditch the crowds. The firmament and I lock eyes, stargazing back and forth.
Whatever happened to the travel days of me telling about a pretty sunset and the feeling of gratitude looking at nature’s wonders? Why on earth am I in a city I dislike, at a party getting intoxicated?
That’s crystal clear. Because I thought I had found structure. I thought peace and quiet were finally mine after 7,5 long years. Then it all got folded into a ball of could’ve, would’ve, should’ve and thrown in the bin.
A not so subtle prostitute walks up to me. Amidst her empty monologue she takes something out of her pocket. The only thing less obvious than her profession is the way she spikes my drink. I brush her off, offer her my drink and head off to my apartment.
I grab my backpack. I need to leave this city that makes depression resurface and shows the shade of every thought. My mind and priorities need a reorganisation and the tumor called social media needs to reduce its prominence in my daily agenda.
I hail a taxi and set out to anywhere but here.
I breathe. The sunrise is quite pretty.
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