Its falling, the rain, washing away the summer dirt, the grit of the parties, the sin of the Santiagan incursion. I watched memories go up in flames, the disco as it burned, sending the nights misgivings, shortcomings, and mistakes up into the air as dark green smoke, torched metal. The bitter taste of a coffee still sits awkwardly in the depths of my tongue. My toes wiggle rhythmically inside worn kayak shoes to the foreign music blaring from the small speakers in the corner of the café. No work today. Yesterday was a tremor of change, causing plans to fall, people to change, a slight ominous shadow to taint the bright sun. My pocket its fat, uncomfortably so, with small Chilean notes, my sudden urge to drink everything in sight slowly easing the discomfort. I touch my tea, it sears my fingertips, causing my hands to move back to the keyboard, back to the stream of thoughts swirling in my head. It is always days like these, when shelter beckons, and the outdoors appear dreary and damp, that thoughts start to weigh, to strain, to burden.
My time here is over.
I can remember a night, months ago, in the early stages of love, when a shaky, worried thought came bursting from my girlfriend's (at the time) lips. "I feel that when you go to Chile you will never come back." I comforted her by saying that my visa would only allow for me to be there 90 days, no more. Having lived her for more than four months now, I can not help but allow her to be right. I did leave her for this place. I gave up on whatever love there was between us to find happiness. I wish I did not have to go home. It is not really my home. I have discovered home is where you are the most happy, fulfilled, and loved.
My home here is now tainted. It leaves a sickening feeling in my chest. I feel the urge to run from this place, yet a reluctance to return to my hometown, my life, my family.
After the interrogation in the street, the PDI asking questions for which I could not supply answers, searched against the wall, I packed my things as though at any moment a SWAT team would come bursting through the door. I sat outside on a bench, all my worldly possessions fitting into two bags, my guitar tightly jacketed in a third. Not knowing why the PDI had searched me I decided to get out of their focus, leave my house. Whatever they were investigating I did not want to be caught in the middle of it. Confused, tired, and alone, I sat waiting to walk to my new house, my new bed for the next few days. The sun was setting, casting a hazy orange glow over the city, I closed my eyes for a moment, waited, allowed the cool fall air to fill my lungs. Sand, the seemingly endless horizon of the ocean, a night sky filled with a scene that allows one to feel insignificant, filled my imagination, fueled my desire to go north, to leave Pucon.
I am lost.
I don't know what will become of my future. To think about the coming years brings a weariness to my body. An overwhelming sense of work. How I wish to see the winter here, to feel the cold bite my cheeks, the rain soak my clothes as I slog to the store, the rivers to rise and become violent and foreboding, a small fire to warm my shaking body after a long day lost in a canyon. My idealistic view on life here allows a comfortable familiarity to warm me. I always have hated change. Loathed every thought of mine which evolves into a new one, showing previous comments to be hypocritical. However, whether I enjoy it or not, change is inevitable, the only constant in life. I touch my tea, my fingers are met by a cool mug, my lips prove the liquid to be warm, a pleasant change.
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