From Bucharest to Amsterdam and back

And now, where? (Photo by me)

In the world I come from, I use to roll over the streets and think like the taxi driver in Scorsese's movie.I think that somebody  has to clean the scum off these streets. They look like coming from a horrid picture of  a nowhere but home place. And all these people roaming all over with their angry faces don’t make the place look any better. Nothing seems to be right. The  40 years old poets trying to impress the cool teenage girls of the boulevard reciting paper back poems, the cool guys of the city throwing around grins that make me sick, the mumbling politicians, the high heeled lies, the junk around the corners, the nasty boulevard itself. It smells like something rotten. A tall woman haunts me trying to make me swallow a pair of medicinal scissors. She’s part of it. Of  the dirty street.

Sometimes I feel like I was made to run astray because it seems I’ll never find the right street.. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got a whole world inside me and this world I’m in is damn wrong. But when I throw myself in the inside there’ll always be somebody or something here to get me out. It’s like I got caught up in between.

I don’t know why I feel like I’ve been trapped in someone else’s cocaine hallucinations. I don’t know why I feel that’s something broken there inside. I think I heard a crack in my head. There may be my self made illusion. The world inside me seems utterly fragile. I still don’t know what’s broken but I think somebody stole my superglue.

Getting out again, on the boulevard of ashtray buildings is never the same. The wind today seems to come from Placebo’s Pure morning and the noise around is a little Nirvana.
I try to get glued to the image of myself wandering around the streets of a city called Amsterdam. The first thing that comes to my mind is the smell of marijuana coming from the coffee shops near the centerfolds. That invasive, rough smell. That crush, that feeling. No I didn’t try. No need more hallucinations. I’m already full.

In the world I arrived, the narrow bridges and houses around the water seemed torn out of a fairy tale. The big windows covered by the light of the sunset had no curtains and you could see those who were living inside. Somebody said that when they move their household, the people of Amsterdam get all the things out of the house on the large windows. That’s because the stairs are too narrow and the houses too tall. That sounded nice to me. Throwing everything away on the window. Throwing away all the past in the dust of the dusk.

Amsterdam in dusk (Photo by me)

There was cold, like spring in Bucharest, even if we were at the beginning of July. A gentle wind was spreading around the rumor of the city. 20 degrees Celsius and a tiny sun, balloons in the water and houseboats. No scum, no angry faces. I was floating like a ghost besides the map. A part of me still lives there. Remember me Amsterdam.

The noise of the dirty street brought me back in a place I’ve seen a thousand times before but never like today. There’s a bag of tricks in the middle of the boulevard and a beautiful lie stays in every corner to get you. No one here will ever give a hand. I'm rolling over the streets like the taxi driver in Scorsese's movie.Nobody will clean the scum off these streets. And neither the rain. We’re living in a world where dark still matters. In a painting called Dark with still life.

I just don’t know where I’m heading. Just walk with an introverted kind of mood digging in my head. Growing older, missing pictures. But the boulevard is long and there’s much time left until midnight. There’s a long way to go without having in mind a certain destination. But there may be nice just walking even there’s so much scum and anger around. Wanna join? Just “wander and ramble the dark moonlight”. Remember me Amsterdam.