Mi Vida so far...

mood: melancholic/philosohical, many things -ic / -ical
music: Bob Marley
random word: pot, yeah, it`s not my fault they`re playing Marley in the cybercafe

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^That morning he had known eveyrything that was going to happen to him as he walked through familiar fields. But now, as the sun began to set, he was in a different country, a stranger in a strange land, where he couldn`t even speak the language.^ -The Alchemist

So now feels like a good time to reflect on these past 2 and a half weeks. My posts, as I`m sure you`ve noticed, have been all over the place, a little random, a little uncharacteristic, mumkin a little frightening. So I`m going to attempt to explain, more for my own sake than for anyone else`s, but if this topic strikes your fancy, do carry on reading.

Because I tend to see life as one giant metaphor, we`re going to pretend that on July 27th, when I left for Uruguay, I was given a brand new sketchbook. I love new notebooks, especially when the pages are smooth and unruffled. On one hand, I find them exciting because it is a new beginning, a fresh, unspoiled book to fill with new experiences, new inspirations. On the other hand, they terrify me because I can´t flip back to the pages of my past and take comfort in revisiting the places I`ve already been.

Regardless, I had a new sketchbook, a new no.2 pencil, and I boarded that plane ready to color those pages with my life. The title, I decided, would be something between ^The New Me^ and ^The Old Me on New Paper with New Pencil.^ In this notebook, I would sketch out my days, my stories, my life, and in the end, I would have a portrait of myself that would give me some insight into where I was, where I`d been and maybe even who I am. At least that was the plan.

But the first night, when I sat down before that first empty page, my hand was trembling, perhaps from the plane, perhaps from the cold, perhaps just because. I couldn`t find a pencil sharpener and the only writing utensil I came across was a thick, black pen in the kitchen drawer. I prefer to draw in pencil so that I can erase, change my mind, go back and fix the things I don´t like. But tonight, it was the black pen that wasn`t even mine, or nothing.

The sketch turned out incredibly awkward. My eyes were too dark, my arms too long, and my hair was much too black. I didn´t even recognize myself. In short, it was terrifying. But you can`t erase pen, so the best I could do was color it in with bold markers in a desperate attempt to create something that, at the very least, resembled art. When I was through, it didn´t look a thing like me, but it was aesthetically pleasing. ^I`m wild and popular and fun!^ it shouted! It couldn`t have been farther from the truth, but for the moment, it was a mask I was willing to wear. (Recall my first post....)

So every day I turn a new page and search once again for myself. It`s still a bit awkward, still unfamiliar and, at times, downright scary. But I`ve gpt a lot of pages and, I can only pray, an equal amount of energy and determination.