This morning was the first gray morning in
what felt like an eternity.
To be truthful, it's only been about 3 months, but
compared to what I'm used to back home, that mine as well be an eternity. There
was this one drab point, some time last month, where the skies turned
terminally gray for a consecutive string of days; however, these particular
gray clouds were lacking. Gray skies are gray skies to most people, but I've
always tended to view them in a more romanticized fashion, as if each time they
appeared, they seemed filled with intrigue, begging us to wonder what they
stood for. Despite this, the aforementioned "drab point" was a bit
simpler—why I hesitated to mention it in my second sentence, which has taken us
till here to get to. The way their color danced on the shaky precipice that
stands fearfully between white and grey, always knowing that one slip could
either lump them into the common absence of color that most accept with open
arms or make them one step closer to gloom, revealed their disingenuous nature,
and therefore I thought nothing of them. Yet today's wispy billows hover
proudly over the bustling city streets, knowing full well why they’re here.
I woke up, greeted the gray, and moved on.
I'm writing now, and it feels right for the first time in a long time. It's a cathartic
feeling, and its main catalyst this morning is the sullen atmosphere. As a born
and bred New Englander, relentless sunshine can actually become tiresome, as
strange as that may sound. And, needless to say, this morning is an easy
morning; nothing unwanted looms, and for once that doesn't freak me out.
However, this calm is poised to give birth to a wild, and uniquely bittersweet,
evening whose moments will sporadically shift about like a big bag of mixed
emotions on a public bus.
Tonight is my flat mates going away party, so
I guess I should shave a bit.
As all of us will be doing before we even
realize it, my "true brahj", who I've lived with for the last 8
months or so, will be making the awkwardly anticipated return home, and tonight
we plan to send him off the best way we know how—with a massive rager, brimming
with garish characters, close friends, and a handful of emotional moments and
empty promises; always good fun. In spite of this exciting prospect, there is a
slight stroke of gray painted down the spine of the entire evening, for this
finale not only serves as a sad send- off for one of my closest friends, it
also stands as an impatient doorman, ushering in my own penultimate moment
here, and that certainly adds a dash of melancholy to the bag. My short chapter
here was an amazing journey into the depths of my own savage mind, with revelry
and self-loathing subtly pushing me to the brink of self-realization—what the
fuck does that even mean? Basically, I know who I am now. Instead of posting
aimless Facebook rants that meander on about absolute shit—anything that
includes the word bitches, harps about "needed" personal changes, or
masturbates incessantly about self—I accepted who I am; all my badass faults
and fleeting convictions included.
Another interesting aspect of my flat mate's
departure that is exciting, unnerving, and a bit-stressful all at once is the intimidating
reality of living completely alone in a foreign country, tucked away in some
notorious neighborhood without the faintest clue as to how to get in touch with
the police; other than stumbling over to the actual municipality and barking
incoherently in my piss-poor Spanish at some apathetic police officer. Despite
the brave effort of trudging over there to speak with someone personally,
nothing would actually ever happen. Most likely, they would do a quick lap
around the neighborhood, grab a beer, and then never follow up or resolve
anything—and honestly, for what the police get paid around here, I wouldn't do
shit either. Besides that small misfortune, an actual facet of the roommate
paradigm that I will truly miss, and one that is even better when you're best
friends from childhood, is coming home from a long day of monotony to a night
that is essentially the closest thing we, as adults, have to a sleepover, which
we all know was the greatest part of our adolescent weekends. Depending on the
night, the itinerary will undergo a few minor alterations, but it typically
looks like this:
Burst through the door— wait a millisecond
for the applause. Toss my backpack onto the adjacent chair and grab my Macbook
from its alcove, all while heading toward the couch. Proceed to do some light
work—both personal and professional—for about an hour. Eventually, my roommate
will emerge from his chamber, and we’ll begin the excessive postulation about
what to watch, heavily weighing out the options provided by Netflix, Hulu, or
from "the Bay". This process can take a while, so we usually sprinkle
a couple funny tales from the road into the mix to pass the time. Once we reach
a definite decision—I specifically say “definite” because as we all know,
picking something doesn't always mean you'll actually continue watching it
after the first five minutes—we argue about which one of us will order the
pizza; it's a rough chore, and down in this country it often causes immediate mental
collapse. While we wait for the pizza, we desolate each other with an array of
physical assaults and nagging, often over the top, insults. It's fun, and you all
know it. DING DONG—and they're off! We scurry about the house trying to find
our money while insisting that the other get the door immediately. With the
pizza secured safely on the table, and some movie or show agreed upon, the
healing begins; smiles, satisfaction, and an overall sense that we accomplished
an incredible feat.
These nights made up for any of the day's
bullshit; two brothers acting like kids again, with nothing being that
important, and everything just on the horizon. We could bounce ideas off each
other, and whether they were absolutely mad or seemingly brilliant, we picked
them apart and analyzed them like two scientists trapped in an underground
laboratory with no way out. However, and as it always goes with all things fun
and good, these nights were destined to come to an end, our bounce back to reality
always in the distance; faint, yet ominously there.
We're here.
My friend's next adventure is going to be an
exciting ride, and I wish him the very best. He is a boundless train, stopping only
for opportunities to save the world, and I hope he continues to run for a very,
very long time. Often-times naive, yet ambitious, he deserves whatever he is
looking for, and I know that among all the capable people, he stands proud,
albeit too proud sometimes—he knows I love him. The prelude to my finale begins
while the curtain closes on his Peruvian stage.
Stay tuned for the final days under the wild
new sun.