I was staring at the street light, watching the cold. My body was steaming, the anger still seeping from muttering lips. I was too tired, too defeated, too buzzed from bitter beer to move. It tilted, slid, spun, I tried to not waver from my perch on top of the bench, but it was futile, the cheap amber liquid skewing my perception. It ached, my heart, for the first time in months. For the first time since that dark day when I ended the call, sending a year of "love" into oblivion.
The words "I love you" are not hard to misinterpret, but maybe they came too casually from her lips. The first girl I had fallen for since my cold arrival four months earlier, walked away, chose a different path other than my beckoning arms, my awaiting lips. "Ja, chao" came my quiet words form barely open lips. As my feet carried me unwillingly away, I cast one look slowly back over my shoulder, caught her gaze, as she yelled something which was swallowed by the surrounding brick buildings. The warm party filled atmosphere of the night sharply changed, turning into a gray, beach like fog, cold and dreary, the friend of depression. I cast my head up toward the night sky, the stars hidden by the artificial imposition of man, and shouted the horrid flood of thoughts which rushed from my heart and gushed out of my mouth.
I keep learning. Love is never equal.
I was hopeful, my first days here, that I would find love once again. I realize my words sound melodramatic, the " I will never love again" from the young nineteen year old, but I truly believe it is growing dark. I try to see beyond what they say, but I am searching for something I cannot find. Empathy has grown to be my enemy, choosing to walk the drunkest girl home rather than strike with the speed of an awaiting serpent coercing her to choose the option of shame, the option of the next day's guilt. I get harassed. They say that I am trying to go home with those girls, that by being nice I am trying to find a way past the seemingly padlocked zipper on their nicely fitting pants, but this is not the case. I feel bad, I feel worried for them, I feel the familiar empathetic response. Always with the philosophy that one day I will be rewarded, but I only seem to find more walls to scale, more hurdles to leap, more oceans to cross.
I am tired.
I think about my future, what little future there is. I see my return to my homeland, to my state of birth, I see the sun shining awkwardly through the trees above the dust filled driveway of a dear friend. I see white walls stair sterilely back at my nervous and uncomfortable eyes as I try to enjoy the old green sofa in my parents house. I see the short walk the to store, the crisp Oregon air biting my cheeks. I see the oven like heat of Idaho. I see the oncoming change. The return to familiarity. I see the same sickness of a swollen heart, and hopeless thoughts return as they did after Idaho. To be dependent upon others always brings the blackness, the haze of smoke to cover my eyes, suffocating my thoughts. I wonder if it will be different this time. I wonder how long before my hope suffers.
I will miss my life here. I will miss my perceived freedom.
I have changed, but am still the same. This environment feeds my soul, the freedom allows for my personality to slip out and enjoy the sun, relax in the uniqueness of the experience. I still search for someone for which to share my experiences with, but have learned the I prefer to be alone. I walk to the bar alone for a reason, I sit away from everyone else, enjoying the cool biting beer in silence, in peace. I reflect, enjoy, and forget the night, as the crowd around me loudly roars in a language my ears forget, in a tongue I do not understand, and I smile. "Jon! Otra Schopp Escudo cierto?" comes the familiar voice of Franz, the owner of the bar. I nod pulling two green slippery bills from my worn jeans pocket, and wait for another beer to come sliding across the bar and into my awaiting hands. Alone and happy, I wait for the slight intoxication to bring new clarity to an sorely over analyzed subject, Love.
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