Everything is still. The fragrance of rain drifts in through the cracked terrace window. Drops of water beat rhythmically against the buildings outside like the muffled footsteps of microscopic children, splashing sporadically up and down the walls before collecting into puddles on the cobblestone street outside my window. A hum and a splash indicate that a nearby vehicle is lumbering its way south, away from town and my home on the lonely end of it. I shuffle my way towards the window without shoes or any intention whatsoever and absent-mindedly place a finger on the glass, opposite a streaking bead of water inching its way towards the earth. Loosely held in my other hand is a tall mug, titanium, and stained with the soot of a hundred lonesome campfires. All the lights are still off and with the weather it seems hours later than it actually is. The silhouettes of the furniture are blurred edges in a dim cave, as if to steal focus away from the contents of the room and their arbitrary arrangement.
The only light is out there, I observe almost audibly as I bring the mug level to my face.
I heard once from someone that it is bad etiquette to lower your head when giving or accepting a toast and to bring the glass to you instead of the other way around.
It’s funny which bits of other peoples’ advice stick with you. It’s never what they deem important. Only stupid facts or unflattering facial expressions.
I sip tea, and for the first time in four years genuinely wish it were something stronger.
I’ve been here too long. I took the job on a whim, and a wild one at that. A friend of a friend of a friend on the internet. Months before I would have considered a million other options before accepting a job as a volcano guide in Guatemala, a job I could never have thought to existed much less could have been an option for me. I'd never once believed either, that I could outrun my neuroticism. Instead I saw it as an ultimate challenge to be so far removed from my previous life and creative pursuits. As much as I love a good underdog story, I think that I'm going to crack.
The strongest prisons are the ones we build for ourselves. We’re too clever.
Here I am, the closest I’ve ever been to truly disappearing, a notion so thrilling that I swear my body is shaking, but it’s just the weather again. I had not predicted to be allowed so much spare time to be trapped within myself. Management had undersold the scarcity of tours during rainy season. I had been living on savings, mostly. Although living is vastly cheaper in Guate than my typical cycle of bills back stateside, I'll end up in the hole if I fulfill my six-month contract. A contract, mind you, that was printed crookedly on the back of an invoice belonging to someone else. I was hardly bound. The only thought on my mind is the prospect of linking up with friends at Lake Atitlán, a few hours' shuttle from Antigua.
Idly, I've allowed self-imposed international sabbatical to get to me.
Either at the end of an old rope or at the start of a very long new one.
I hear a rumble from far off north and entertain the usual guessing game of “fireworks, volcano, thunder, or gunshot?” It’s best not to know sometimes.
If I’m to go up the mountain again this week, I swear it will be the last time.
I think the altitude has thinned the inner workings of my mind, or at least that’s what I’ll tell myself to keep paranoia at bay for another moment.
Whatever I’ve done, I’m the first to do it this way. No one else is dumb enough to have come this far for so little. It looks as if I was running away. Was I running away?
I hear another rumble - definitely thunder this time - but further away than before. The storm must have traveled on, and I ought to follow it.
I must make up an errand. I must run north with the rain. I must give up this war with myself and fall victim to entropy like the rest of the world seems to have done around me. I could do it again.
Keep moving, I mouth almost audibly as I place the empty mug on the counter. It’s a chalice. The chosen vessel. A simple object with a singular function. If only I could be so purposed.
Still barefoot and shirtless, I step out into the rain and onto the street as the wind stirs up the fragrances of the city and of the soaked pavement beneath me.
I turn to face the clouds. And at once again, I am pulled by that invisible arrow that points out from each of us in every direction.
I have never been so utterly afraid to be lost in the colors of the human spectrum, and I have never before wished so fiercely to be swallowed whole by the very chaos of it.
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