You are asking me how I am doing, how was the race. Understandable, given how long I have been building it up. I could tell you that the race was fine, and that I am in a good place. All of that would be true. But I know that’s not what you are looking for. You are looking for the customary soul splitting narrative [like this or this].
And I am not sure I can give it to you. Perhaps, not yet.
I am feeling strangely (and uncharacteristically) private. Bashful. Like a blushing bride.
I left the island one day early, so I could spend an entire day not talking to people. Instead, I spent a day in the hotel, lying on my bed, staring into space, and writing. Getting up to take a walk. Writing some more. Then staring off into space again. Punctuated by an occasional tear jerking song. All the classic symptoms.
It was sweet, painful and glorious at the same time. And it was mine. All mine.
I found my peace, and lost it. And found it again. One step at a time, riding both highs and lows.
Now that the technicality of the DNF is out of the way, it is time to work on the art of failing. Just like losing your virginity is only the first step in a lifetime of perfecting the art of lovemaking. It has just begun.
The Ometepe Island is a portly Nicaraguan woman with soft belly and asymmetrical volcano bosom. She doesn’t beat around the bush. She is like the Oracle in the Matrix, smiling kindly and serving gallo pinto with a generous portion of humility and self-knowledge. I’d do well to listen.
And the soundtrack:
Leavin’ a mark where you shouldn’t have Think I’ve gone mad (mad mad) …
Beyond the road Away from city lights I go I go I carve your name In stone, and trees, and clouds the same …
So grateful So grateful