It feels like a dream, waking up in Buenos Aires. I walk down the city streets not fully grasping how the buildings lead only to more buildings. No beach, no mountains, no vines and orchids hanging from the trees. People dress nicely here, but they don’t smile or laugh liberally. And why on earth is it called “Buenos Aires” when the air is so polluted that I constantly feel ill?
How I called up Varig Airlines with my credit card and paid to leave Brazil earlier than planned, I don’t know. I even told my taxi driver to bring me anywhere other than the airport. (Shouldn’t have tipped the bastard.)
I can’t really explain why I did it. Fuck, I had money to stay, I had friends in the North and South begging me to visit them. Here is my attempt: Sometimes what we want and what we need are not only different, but highly contradictory things. I listened to what I wanted in coming to Brazil; arrived airily, with a plan kindled mostly by my dream. But in the gap I did not write, most of what I touched turned to ash. I couldn’t stop it. My departure was traumatic, like someone snatching something precious from my hands, but it was necessary. I accept the sadness it has roused in me, for it is just as valuable as my happiness has been. And I hope to be lead to a better place in the end.
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