Daughter of the sun
I am having and identity crisis after spending a week at the beach, maybe writing will help me recover.
I am in deep mourning for what could’ve been. I am distressed. I only traveled for one week and this state of grief is absurd for such a short period of time. I am upset because despite all the risky things I did, there were some chances I didn’t take. Phone numbers I didn’t ask for, touches that didn’t happen, words left unsaid. For fear of looking too eager I said “it’s fine you can stay, I’ll go by myself!” and now it’s the last words I said to him. Because what if I had stayed ten days insted of six? Would I have followed him anywhere had I know his dreams, his past and his fears? A short conversation planted a stranger in my mind for days. How can I bear going back to my life after being away from myself. I loved me there, I’m bored of me here.
For weeks I daydreamed of floating under the hot cuban sun, waves carrying me gently to peace. I’d lust for the nights of dancing merengue, the cocktails I’d drink from plastic cups, the smell of cigars and seasalt. It all became real so fast and slipped away from me just as quickly. As the waves washed away our footprints on the sand I flew back home, more alive than I arrived, already homesick for what I knew would only be temporary.
I carry a part of it within me, a comfort provided for some time, until I recover and accept that after all, I belong here, and my life is mine, and I will escape it again someday. These comforts lie in the sand I still find at the bottom of my purse, my sun bleached hair, freckles on my nose, memories resurging and carrying me back into the arms of temporary lovers, of hands on my hips, of dance circles around me. I reach for the top of my forehead, the sting of the fading sunburn reminding me how only a few days ago, rays left their hot touch there. I tell myself I can always get part of it back, speak spanish, drink rum and off-brand coke, dance , stroll around my neighborhood in a bikini (like a lunatic), aching to feel like I felt. Some things are only meant to stay there, the things that got closure and were locked away into a time and place, our memory hazy, a vague pleasant feeling was all we had left.
I’m back at my desk, looking out of my window, typing on my laptop, the snow is blinding me, my feet are cold, and I'm studying for a midterm I have in two hours. I reply to the boy’s text message, half hoping someday the universe will bring us back together, half sensing things should’ve been left abroad. The luggage is hidden away until a new adventure, the washer whirring in the background, stripping the clothes we’ll hide until warmer days of their sandy, salty scent. Slowly, I’ll crawl out of this gentle heartbreak, I’ll smile at friends I will keep forever, I’ll forget the taste of the ocean and I’ll plan a new trip. This summer, maybe? I can slowly allow myself to dream about the places I’ll visit and the people I will meet, leaving this behind and looking forward to visiting the realities of elsewhere. For now, I am living slowly, in the homely routines, awaiting warmer days and later evenings, in the paths I’ve always walked.
Some songs and pictures to bring me back, and you along with me.
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