If I’m not mistaken, not all is lost. Am I putting up a front of reluctance, while I actually wanted to return subconsciously? (My friend Mauricio convicted me of this frequently.) Now that he’s in my train of thought, I draw memories of High Point, my American-school alma mater. Ever since landing here, I never wanted to move back, nor move someplace else. (For what is the reason of becoming a contemporary nomad?) While studying at a place where “ghetto” redefined itself, I forgot that our mission was for a year only. Fall passed, winter passed, spring passed, summer is passing. Ive see food fights and arrests, friends, madness, gogo, Christian rock and the inexpediencey of hall sweeps. Fasting three times a year is too much of chances; uniforms add to the inexpediencey of the school system (which I still adore); comparisons sweep more than ehte coherency of my words or the actions of my actions. For now, I can’t forget the hefty Southeast D.C. accents, half-and-halfs, clappas, and Spanish.
!No pude borrarlo todo de la mente de un cantazo!
As much as I want to erode the facts, they’re cristal clear: we’re leaving, and it’s final. I don’t want pointing fingers when I dance, nore scolding hands when I listen to “Better Than Drugs”, or “Quiero Que Me Hagas El Amor” on the radio. Leave me in peace if I like Reik, Camila, Evanescene or Secondhand Serenade. I don’t want to play the game- but I don’t’ need the tug-of-war of superficial. Let me dance in the freedom I know, please join me if you want to.
Yet I feel like David: a man with a heart similar to God’s, yet his unscrupulous flesh almost devoured him. With my thorns, I feel that I stab o the back fo God. Wait- if it’s not in his purpose, then why am I busy hunting down for my own darkness? I’m still afraid for setting a strange fire and getting killed down, yet I do that oh, so frequently. We play the game in our hearts (for God cannot be fooled, ever), and end up deceiving us only.
Damn passions! I wish they would cease from my body. So we’re leaving, yes, but what does this have to do with packing our bags? I do what I don’t have to do, but I don’t’ do what I have to do. Who’s bigger than my passions, myself, or God? What brings me to my knees and makes me realize I am fragile? Who brings me to my knees and makes me realize I am fragile? Yet, He’s not angry; He's not...
