Life, then, I guess.
I’ve left Chile. I’ve moved into a new part of my life. But the older I get, the more I understand that living is about being able to leave parts of you wherever you go. I’ve left parts of me every place I’ve ever been or lived: Austin, Dallas, Santiago, Valparaiso, Buenos Aires, Charlotte, Santa Clara, Philadelphia.
You name the city, I’ve left something there. I left my childhood in Charlotte, I left my infancy in Santa Clara,I left my heart in Philadelphia, I left my soul in Austin, I left my problems in Dallas,I left the alcohol in Santiago, I left my youth in Buenos Aires. It’s a strange thing to do, leave things behind. You move on, from relationships to the next relationships. What they don’t tell you, whether it be friendships, or relationships with a romantic tilt, or relationships with cities, or what have you, but, what they don’t tell you is that nothing ever ends: I have strewn the puzzle pieces of my soul across three continents, and the parts of me that I have left there are left there. I will never recover the days, or weeks, or months, or years. They are there. Inextricably tied to me yet,
yet distant. Like a faraway cry or dream of potential self. I am that same man who had a long term long distance girlfriend. I am that same man who lived in Santander. Soy el weon que vivio en Santiago, Valparaiso, y Buenos Aires. I am me. I am a line that connects the parts that make the whole.
I feel separated, like the parts of myself that I have strewn across the globe. I feel like a scarecrow ripping asunder, held together by the thinnest of ropes… My arms, my legs, my heart, my head… they are only attached by threads. The parts of me that I leave places escape me.
This is not to say that they don’t grow back. My heart has returned to me, full force, with the girl I have met. My head has returned to press my responsibilities back into my DNA. My arms and legs have returned to carry me to new challenges and new ideas.But life continues. I will find new places to leave these regenerate parts. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You regrow the thing that you’ve left, but you don’t regrow it well, or nearly as well as you had it before. You regrow the parts that you have left behind life a voice forms an echo. The echo, that becomes the blueprint, that becomes the regrown limb.
It’s a sad thing, to grow, or grow up. The sheen of life brightens as it dims. It becomes something that you hope to improve, but that you intrinsically know will not remove the dimness.
So, yeah. I wish I could end this on an up note. I wish I could. But then again, what does?