Requiem for a dream
I’m not quite sure on what note I want to summarize my time in Chile; my reflections are firmly nestled in the past, relevant once, when they were the catalysts of the present, but this is an ending (or a transition) and to pretend I am a Chilean using my introspection to reintroduce myself into the US would be to ensure the phenomena of never being able to go home again. In some way one can’t return, once I truly engaged the people of both Bolivia and Chile the boarders of my home expanded —or perhaps even disappeared. While I love New Hampshire and the people I’ve reunited with here I call the place “home” with an asterisk, an annotation that leads to small print at the bottom of my thoughts and read something like:
Some experiences may not clearly translate from the language they were experienced in…love and amor are not the same idea, sometimes they have geographic boundaries…the antiplano is as friendly as the Atacama and the White Mountains…
There is really not much more I can go on about. I was there, I am here, I will forever be tied to both places and it is a “thing” that only I own. Returning was not weird nor jarring nor depression-inducing —as a return home shouldn’t be— and I am confident that if I return to the painted streets of Valparaíso or the steep hills of La Paz I will feel the loving weight of the city’s open arms equally as I do here.