UNFINISHED STORY OF A CLOSURE

So here I am again in beautiful Amsterdam. Just passing through, just passing through. I’ll end up in Portugal.
‘Things happen to me in airports’ I was thinking to myself while sweating in an endless line to check weather I’m entitled or not to leave the glorious Holly land of all opportunities (?!) after I was obliged to buy an expensive ticket from Lisbon to Madrid. Portugal demands. The world demands! But of course statistic wise this nagging things happen to you when you bounce from country to country, continent to continent, so often.
At last 17 F. my poor guitar had to stay at 10. I was the last one to board. Their fault, I guess...
No tears, just this unknown feeling anchored at the bottom of my intestines. Soon enough I was cupped between the oval window and the wig-wearing lady to my left. No dreams. haven’t repaired on that yet. Do I dream in aeroplanes?
Twenty minutes to landing. This is the captain, 9 degrees, hour earlier, traffic, waiting. Endless walk, wrong luggage moving belt (I did not come from Turkey, did I ?).
Twenty four hours.
Beautiful amsterdam is dirty. Trash strike I guess. It seems like something got lost here from the last time I walked this city some months ago. I take some pictures. I wish the smell of the air could be transmitted aswell through the digitalised images I cherish so much.
Do I look like a tourist? Do I blend? Am I a tourist? Do some crazy months of inhabiting this city make you somehow local? I’m not local here or anywhere. I’m circumstantial.
My phone doesn’t make a sound, although I sent him a message from the Turkish luggage moving belt.
He looked so sad... I knew it would end in tears but it didn’t stop me. Or him. He ran away fast and didn’t look back. So poetic. He is like that but nobody knows. HE didn’t know.
He didn’t ask me to stay. Not even with his tired eyes. True love?
And then I think to myself: He writes short stories, I must be one of them.
Though I think this one is a little different, not so cynical, different humour, he didn’t write it alone in front of his old and semi-smashed computer. He doesn’t want to write me with his own hand writing, he wants to type. Does he want to hide what his writing really reflects? He refuses and moves uncomfortably on the bar stool after some Jameson with a lot of ice. Special occasion, not drinking vodka, he always wanted to drink a whiskey with me. Always... We start a debate. he doesn’t really say the harsh words pounding in his brilliant mind. He doesn’t want to hurt me. He wants to protect me. From him? That’s not the first time he does that. He was so hurt... I was, I am, so sorry.
I punch and punish myself through other people. A conquered conclusion! Congratulations! Now I can move on. Never considered myself a self-destructive creature.