The Season's changed, Winter Texans packing and getting ready to head home. My island bustles with the first Summer tourists of the year. The quiet and solitude of Saturday gone for another year. Breakfast at San Juan's, outside table, sun not yet high enough to warm the chill in the air. Next week marks two years I've been here in the desert, a thousand miles from home, and not much has changed. Those who own the Island and those who come for the week and go home.
I've made a friend, though I don't see him much, started out with him threatening to kill me, thinking I was a spy for the FBI, to his admitting he was wrong about me, I was better then I seemed. He disappears to where from time and again, to where I cant even begin. A love for central Mexico, he disappears, sometimes it's just the other side of the bay, but in those seldom moments we meet, I realize I'm not the only one who's a bit strange.
No clouds in the sky, beautiful day, everyone in a rush, in a hurry to go somewhere, nowhere, its an Island you can only go so far. Trying to fit a years worth I guess in a weeks short time. Yet I realize my time is short too, fitting in life, just the day or two, each week I get away from across the bay, the machine that will eat you alive if you let it, chew you up and spit you out if you let it, or work until finally one dies. Life is truly but a vapor, seasons are but moments snapshots in time.
Today, what to do, I guess the yearly flea market opens, maybe we'll give it a try. I'll take my girl for a ride across the channel, and look for oddities amongst the piles. She'll pick out a thing or two, maybe I'll even find a treasure or two. I have a feeling though, not much to be had, I guess there isn't too much that makes me happy, It's been too many years, I've felt nothing, just a deep disconnected personality tied to sad.
My life tied to this keyboard, the place of emotional untying, those long tentacles that unless I struggle from release what's left will leave me dying. Trying for change, yet that's my greatest fear, to be abandoned, marooned on a island, just in sight of land, not wanting to leave, but to stay is hell. The story of my life here sitting on the fence, caught between the hell that pays me to live out these weekends and the couple of days left, and the purpose to which I'm called I know tugs at my heart, when to do something is left to others before I can depart.
Everyone's in a hurry to where I don't know, it's Island time and the greed of temporary freedom pulls their strings. I'll cross the bay today, for a moment or two, and realize I've left my Island, feeling lost and ready to go home too, the only place that makes me feel near to the home I know, so far in the distance, I'm a thousand miles from home.
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