Thursday, September 13, 2007
Had a tube stuck down my throat and it hurt. I tried to vomit but all I could do is choke. They gave me pills to get rid of some pest. The pills hurt. I hurt. People say things that make me hurt. I try to regurgitate the information that I have been force fed, but I just choke. I just hurt. A million miles from my dearest friends. I pace back and forth in my room, then I walk down the street and back. Nothing. Everyone speaks Spanish here. I only speak Spanish here. I don't know how to say anything anymore. I just want to stroll down the empty San Francisco streets at midnight and spew random misplaced words with my homie. It doesn't matter which ones I use because he understands. The worse things happen when you have no one and nobody loves you when you're all alone. The drugs I used to take tempered my pain and eased my miscommunication. My medication now only kills everything I have inside. My life consists of a path that takes me downtown to where I search for solace and only find parasitic infestation. I walk past beautiful human beings that belong to another way. I can only mimic their actions. I can't find the words to break through to their hearts. I love this land. Psychology sessions take place on street corners and the little telephone stands that are run by dark skinned girls who wait for the next caller. There are no head shrinkers waiting in their carefully decorated offices contemplating their leather chairs. Everything beyond the bus route into town stays far from my imagination. The Andes mountains cradle and detain me. They let the sunrise shine through their peaks only for the clouds to see and translate into colors for everyone below. The steep slopes gather the rain and deliver it brown and muddy to the streets below. It's a range that holds this continent up from all the blood that weighs it down. A man once traversed it to bring people of the same ancestors together. They rejoiced and shouted, "Viva Símon," then shot at him and chased him towards their old captors. Now there is a statue of him in every square. Another man follows his footsteps, over every peak and through every vally of this tremendous beast. His followers chear and rejoice, but for how long? Now I don't wait anymore. I just exist. I look towards another sunset to relieve this pain, but it's not pain anymore. It's just a hollowness that comes from too many miles that wisped away under my feet. It also comes from the hundreds of little changes I had to adapt to every time I came to a new land. There comes a point where you meet too many people. They all blend together and disappear, a single impenetrable jungle. It was wise for Bolívar to take to the mountains, where the sharp rock cuts through all that vegetation. He could think alone and dream for himself. Simón Bolívar died with severe stomach pains that came from deserting his well bread body. He no longer wanted to be an oligarch standing on the backs of his black and native ancestors. My pain comes from another place. My body left me for not keeping it nourished. My mind was selfish and wandered in dreams. There is no finish to what I'm saying. It just ends when I take my poison and kill my pests. I'm looking up toward the morning star to bring new beginnings.
Posted by Racumin at 1:04 PM