The itch grows
and twists
and prickles
more and more
the closer and closer
I get to relief

I can't decide if it is strength,
my choosing to stay,
or weakness.

Running home,
exhausted, the tail end of sick,
it seems like the easy option.

But staying,
staying is maintaining the status quo,
even though that "quo"
feels like having my shoulder
against a moutain pushing back.

I want to die-
I have never been this sick
and never been so sick
as to be unable to function
twice in one year.
I already did my time,
dammit.
I am miserable
and have no recourse.

All I can think of
is going home.
Quitting,
throwing in the towel,
a disappointment.

I hang on anyway,
for now.

Barcelona

Too much history,
too much to see,
to do,
I have to come back.
Maybe not this year,
Maybe not this month,
but one day.

I will see this place again,
uncover more of her stories
and food and joys.

The bus ride is long,
winding through moutains and history
to find its way
to an old city
I know stories of,
and now I can touch its stones.

Of course,
the first thing I truly do
is wind my way
into a salsa lesson.

Strange,
perhaps,
to think of these waiters
as "my boys,"
but I do.
I'm borderline regular now
and I feel a strong loyalty to this place.
Do they think about me
When I fail to show up?

This is a calmer place,
where the slow day,
the steady trickle,
is honored.
Doucement, doucement,
take your time to eat and drink,
take your time
but live to the best
and the fullest.
Live the good life.