I thought only of experiences, but ahora me da cuenta de que una parte of me has depended on este escapismo this year -- cierta distancia, if you will.
And I am willing to go anywhere -- small northern towns, countries with half of the population below the poverty line, cities of screeching lights and lake shores -- if it will take me.
I am protected right now at this table in Mexico, New York, 8 pages into my Spanish paper, as Emeline talks to her parents about the deals she's made on books off of Ebay, her sister YouTubes songs in the next room, and her grandma likely concocts more hilarious remarks ("Did you just say, 'Get 'er done'?"). A stream moves quietly through rain-darkened green grass.
Distance makes me safe.
Yet the always-running part of me is stared down by the other part that just wants rest. A small-town, intimate, smiles and pies and forever love sort of life. And I will sit by the window and write my stories. A beautiful, reflecting silence.
Well, I will always be writing.
Pero eventualmente, inevitable, como sabemos demasiado bien, tengo que volver.
He salido y he vuelto.
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