A beautiful view of Lima

It is a cool fresh night in Lima, walking down the path at the top of the cliff, the movement begins to settle, as I drift into an upscale neighborhood with large modern apartment buildings, the buzz of the city fades, and a glimpse into the life of Lima residents becomes transparent. I notice couples in windows, preparing for the evening rituals. A group of friends talk and laugh on a terrace above. People are living their lives, moving through their routines, spending time with the people they love.

The familiar feeling has slipped its way back into me, wrapping itself around the solitude. Being alone throughout my travels, throughout my life, has become a part of me. Some people may become used to having another waiting for them after work, talking about the day, perhaps visiting friends, sharing the same bed.   Many others live in familiar cities, where friends and family are woven throughout the fabric of the social life. I have become comfortable being alone, settling into the silence after a long flight and a new hotel, finding the sweet spot of an unfamiliar bed, accepting the imperfections of an un-chosen pillow. I have accepted the solitude, not by effort, but by a natural harmonization between myself, and the emptiness. The loneliness is a different sort feeling. The loneliness wraps itself around the solitude like a snake suffocating the air out of love, strangling the hope from the future. Like an icy winter wind, the loneliness creeps through my bones smoldering flames that had just began to burn. I had left it behind for a few weeks now, or maybe even months. I began to feel a part of something, but as I walk alone along the path overlooking the Pacific Ocean, the lights of Lima in the distance, I began to wonder. As I see a couple up in a window, a flash of awe, a hint of pleasure thinking about what it would be like. I am addicted to the sadness? Since I was a child I always wanted to be in love, the fear hasn’t left me. The dream of having my own family slips in and out of my grasp, like a drifting feather, I can’t seem to ever grasp. The feeling as returned, and I stand between two worlds, neither outside nor within. Sadness running its nails down my face, ripping me open, releasing the pain. I wonder if I’ll ever make it home.