The thing about Isaac is during my worst days, in my ugliest days he made me feel just as beautiful and adored as a million of these Latino men. I am a fucking fool. I cannot lie to him, and I cannot tell him the truth. So I am hiding, dreading the moment he searches in my eyes, and holds me in his arms, and feels what has happened. That is just it with soul maters; they feel it through your skin, they see it in the depths of your eyes, they know everything just by knowing you. I look back on our photos from the beach and Asheville. We were so young then. That was only months ago. I feel an eternity older now. I am sure it is the same for him.
How do you forget the one you love? With klonopins, anything is possible. I am not blaming my dishonesty on substances, but I look at these photos and his presence haunts me. He is part of my mind, my body, my soul and I have been the one to fail our relationship. He will return an Alaskan mountain man, and I will return as... well, god, I have no idea who the fuck I am right now. I am a whole lot of talk of reformation for the poor and needy, and those just stuck in life. Reformation? I cannot even reform myself.
I wish I could say no more. But what then? I am a world away from my world, and I am giving myself no limits. I met a man last night who told me not to stretch my luck. I told him not to jinx me.
Granted, I am walking on the edge of a cliff the size of the Grand Canyon, and teetering as I peer down at the bottom. That's where the thrill is: in that teeter between danger and safety. You either fall to your death, or you wobble back the other way, to stability. I have yet to fall, so I have no idea what my mind would be thinking as I went soaring through the air, crashing to the bottom. Once again, on the rocks.
There are still many things I want to do, that I want to try. I want to travel all throughout South America. I want to go on a safari through Africa. I want to learn another language after Spanish. I have forgotten most of the German I had learned. I have forgotten most of my education back home, because it is all just a lump of bull shit information now. As I am faced with new problems, none of the bull shit they have taught me in school has aided me one ounce in coming up with ideas. Except for those cheesy Spanish classes you take in High School. It's in those little annoying songs about the days of the week, and the songs you learn in Sunday school, and the ridiculous games they make you play to learn Spanish... really, the things that everyone overlooks and saw as invalid and irrelevant have been the things that I have scraped from my memory to use here with my volunteer work.
Patti is like a rock. Not some crumbling mountain side pebble, that chips off at the touch of another rock. She is more like Ayers rock, or a flint stone for that matter. She is made of steel, and her joyous soul is what holds this family together. These are hard times for this family financially. Mr. Ernesto is falling into a deep depression at his lack of fortune finding a job and putting the pressure on his sons to support his family. He is losing hope, and so I gave him half of a klonopin and a cigarette today. Sometimes you just need to be drugged into a wonderland.
There is always Patti with her large, grand smile and laughter bubbling from her chest, so innocent and sweet. Some days, I wish I could be as strong as her. She fell all the way down the stairs the other day, and amidst her pain, she stubbornly continued to cook for her family, and change our bed sheets, and do mine and Michelle's laundry. She has the heart of another Mother Theresa, the peace of Gandhi, and the joy of a child.
So many days I feel sad at my devout Ecuadorian mother. She does not get out, except to go grocery shopping. She has no money of her own, no extra things for enjoyment. She cooks and she cleans constantly, day after day. She has no friends here in this city, so I suppose that would leave her with her family to be the main devotion. She is joyful and strong, despite the struggles of the men in her life. She is a giver, a lover, a woman who is full of compassion and strength to put up a smile and let out a giggle even when tension is thick. If I ever had the opportunity to name a mountain, I would name it Patricia. I try to help with the dishes and the laundry and such, but at the same time, my help is taking away from her source of fulfillment: her job.
Life is just hard. Life is like a range of mountains, you make it over one, only to look up and see the next great obstacle before you. At the top, the scenery is glorious. When climbing down, times are easier and a task is complete. On the way up, there is that constant burn in your body and the nagging of your mind to stop and rest. For some, the time of rest is not a possibility. For some, these mountains are covered with glaciers and snow. Others are fortunate enough to have the trails laid before them. They merely need to go up and then down, following the zigzagging lines that have been tracked once before to achieve their goals. Trail blazing is the only route for others... wading through river rapids and chopping the forestry that is in their way.
Americans are the biggest idiots I've ever been around. They only have concept of time and money. They have no concept of the troubles of the rest of the world, or what it means to sacrifice yourself for others. In a third world country, especially once you have a family, all is sacrifice. Everyone I know back home are so consumed with their materialism and their petty friends that they are blinded to the possibilities of what they could do in the life of another. Seek and ye shall find, right? Americans think they've found their treasure, when really they've just buried it under their land mine of divorces....
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