Distance is poetic. Like an unblossomed flower in the first day of spring. One day it grows and we know it with no doubt. With no question marks.
It was a sunny day in The Hague. I was looking for winter. Checking price tags in the stores I hate to visit. Putting a self in the agony of consumerism. Tourists everywhere in the streets. Was beautiful, but Wageningen came into mind with melancholy. A countryside story never fails me. Nature, river, and the famous ‘berg’. Give me nothing but silence. Cities are made with appetite for destruction, with an archaic zest for things. It was a sound inside me who preach with gusto: too much hypocrisy in the city.
Here I am again. I meant to write a poetic-romantic-melancholic narrative on distance and 6-hours space in the days of winter of the north there. It is failed as I am sitting in my room. Romanticism filled my eyes and burned my mind. Do not blame me, darling. It was a long cold winter in the Netherlands. (It was great days, do not mistaken me.) But a man from the south will always miss the south. The sun, here, shines with honesty. Sometimes too brutal. But, as a friend once said, ‘I just miss the place where I know its rules.’
See? Distance is poetic. Like you and me in front of the beers. The foam in the head of the glasses never lies. One day it will be gone. Like the distance of ours.
(October 29, 2017)