Some of us turn our heads and some of us engage. I am one that engages.
A stranger. Or a cause of events, particularly bad luck. Cancelled flights. Flat tires. Crowded coffee shops. Lonely holidays. And I search those that I encounter. Their words. Not blinded by sight, age, or situations. For I believe, nothing happens by chance.
And so my life remains interesting. Often others are baffled. The walls in which I sit now left Julie’s mouth agape. But then, she laughed, “You have the craziest life. And I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
And so, did I mention The Man at the airport? A cancelled flight followed by being denied access to the admiral’s club since my membership was months expired. Hours later, I returned to the secured door. And was accepted. No, I didn’t renew my membership, but we all have our ways. The eyes of the lady who refused me shot daggers in my back.
Upon entrance, chairs away, there was a Man. Followed be a lunch, a ferrari and some common similarities. And now a week later, a purchased ticket for me to return to San Juan to meet again. I thought it was just a Sunday night dinner. But a text now reads, “Bring your passport. You need it Monday.”
A script plays through my head. The words to explain that I am not one to be bought. My penniless struggle, my tears, and the suffocation I currently encounter would make such an offer hard to refuse. But refuse I will.
However, the world is not black and white. I will not simply slam the door.
I will search for another . . .
My breath cannot breathe. Suffocated by the inertia that surrounds me, the lies I have learned. A fog envelops me this morning, the bed beckons me. But it offers no true refuge, an escape escapes me.
I reach, I reach deep into my heart. And I plead, I plead for my inner will. I search for the strength so seemingly eluding. The mountain’s face continues to loom. I am so tired of climbing. Disbelief at the challenges that face me.
I think of my life. The world that I dance on top of. The black ferrari in which I sat as we flew down the FDR. The check. The meetings. The movies. The sphere of the influential and the famous building in which I now sit. The surface so vastly different than the truth and the maze in which consumes my heart. To be on the brink of something so great. My energies question their ability to continue. But, I know. I know that this is not forever.
And I return to working on eliciting the change in which I desire. The cement to the world my toes are immersed in . . .
And I listen to Whitney Houston’s, “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.”
And I pick myself back up.
Hold my head up high.
I was not built to break.
My toes immersed in sand, I milk these moments and particularly this one for I travel to New York tomorrow. A heart torn. A desire to be both here and there. I want to clone myself. I relish this desire. The affirmation that I am living life, that I am present. Preferred to a depression where I long to not exist.
Memories play in my mind as I soak up the sun. My tanned body in an ocean of cold in the trip that awaits me. His words. My pleasure. My contentment with our friendship. A recollection of the jolt that reverberated through my limbs as our sweaty arms momentarily touched. His hand on my back as he motioned me to change directions.
Our run last night as much of the world prepared to retire.
The streets were ours. We ran side by side. As friends. Speaking of relationships. His realizations that his new ex was justified in her actions. I fought my desire to disagree. I relish his disappointment at my leaving and I wish I weren’t. I fear that a new friend will replace our frequency in my abscence. But I don’t allow that fear to paralyze or concern me. I smile. My S.
If only you knew the thoughts I think of you. As we run, your steps behind me, my uncle’s words scroll through my mind. How much you awoke me? No one has affected me as you did. And you have no clue. Newly single. My S. I filed my feelings for you many months ago. But they remain proven by the color of my cheeks and the light in my eye when I speak of you . . .
And now you are here. And my words locked. My heart longs for us to get to know each other without the dance we once danced. The me you misread. Hopes that rooms will be filled with our laughter, that you will see the me that everyone else sees. I remember your head on my lap, the ocean screaming in through my windows, my fingers tracing letters, S + D on your perfectly scuplted back. A moment has never been so intimate as hours past, and words not said. I loved you in that moment. But it was post our sealed fate.
Now I think about tonight. A run should the rain not recommence. And I think of the girl that shows up at your door. And I wonder is it the girl that people fall for? Or in the process of hiding, masking my once hurt heart, I am someone else . . .
I can only hope that I deliver me. That our friendship grows. My faith is in timing, for ours is not now. I am gone too much and you too newly single. To the exploration of ourselves, in seeing through our friendship if their is an us beyond what never was.
We all have all tolerances and those that we cannot stomach. A trip to New York, originally intended to be 7 days. Transformed into almost a month. I return to San Juan. A place I still call home, despite the truth I can no longer hide from– that it no longer is. I hold on to it. My pinky wrapped around the balloon’s ribbon. The ballon seemingly deflated.
I come. Bearing a smile. Justifications. However, countless events have worn that smile, washed it thin. Unrecognizable.
Friday 10/30 The flight arrives at 12am. No one to welcome me. An airport within ten minutes, yet no friend to find. I arrive to my apartment. Carry my bags. My dog. To the second floor foyer outside my apartment. I climb the roof and squeeze through a window 1′ x 1′ over the stove as my keys lay inside. A rotting body so it smells. My hand against the cement wall to turn on the luz, to no avail. Fuck it. I have been here before. The company didn’t pay the bills. And worse yet, Friday. No hope for reversal until Monday.
Sigh. At least I am utterly exhausted. I go to collect my bags. The dog is gone. My heart races and I run frantically outside to the heavily trafficked “Ocean Drive.” Luckily a woman holds him. She was going to take him home. Thank god the Subway worker instructed her that he was mine. Flaca’s (the skinny girl who lives above.)
I lay my head. Tomorrow awaits. The first day that I can regain my routine. My horse. My workouts. My gym. The morning welcomes me. Yet no hour exists. No phone. No power. I take a coffee at said Subway. Charge my phone. The only spinning class is minutes away. I depart. Until the company car won’t start. As I shut the door, so does the blood in finger. Stuck in the locked door.
A $12 cab to the gym. A glorious workout. But, my finger throbs. Breathe. Calm. Like the celebrity’s tattoo.
I arrive back home. To recall that the hood of company car is quite broken. And the mechanic a month ago couldn’t open. The battery. The life. The heart that needs to be resuciated before the power and freedom that awaits me is guarded, unreachable. And my heart numbs. I search for perspective. The lesson in misfortunes. The strength.
Now I still search. As I sit. Feeling homeless. A bag of candles in my bag. A mile from home. At starbuck’s that closes in but twenty minutes. I pray for the power to revitalize my phone. My mind to collect so I can finish my work. 17 minutes.
And simply, I have no tolerance for stuck.