Monserrate

#1

I like the view from here. I can get used to this. The faint sound of salsa music and Spanish words in the background and a city of 7,5 million people below me. All worrying about matters that eventually will turn out to be irrelevant. Over here, on top of this mountain, I’m doing the same, but at least I have a nice view. A lot nicer than the outlook I had back home.

Life was good, it was. But slipping, falling and smashing my head into a metal fence six and a half years ago made that comfortable life take a U-turn. The next day I woke up with the hangover from hell, a concussion-like feeling that was accompanied by tensed muscles that made every movement from the shoulders up feel as if I was tearing those muscles apart. And before I knew it, without my consent, I was married to this relentless she devil. Determined to make my life as miserable as possible. I went from first class to the back of the bus.

Man, this jet lag doesn’t play around. It comes flying in hard. I feel like a twin tower, 2001 edition. Also, I really need to improve my Spanish. Because ‘No gracias, empanada’ is not making this old lady with her bag full of useless products back off. It’s okay. The sun is making its presence known and the gusts of wind soothe the inevitable sunburn. It beats the previous years by a landslide.

Decaf coffee, a smelly bed and staring at the ceiling, what a fucking life to live. I stopped my study, financial troubles made me move to a crappy neighbourhood in a town I dislike, I visited every doctor available and shook hands with every therapist this country has to offer, I frequently lose consciousness, vomit daily and my head feels like a victim that’s being molested 24/7. I’m not much for quitting, but I came quite close.

‘No me gustan las empanadas, señora. Yo quiero enjoying the view.’ Great job, Vic, that’s some proper Spanish. I might just change my name to Hector.

Not sure yet if I’m glad to not have killed myself. That’ll take some time to figure out. The writing helped. A way to kill time instead of yours truly. A coping mechanism to preserve my sanity. A word of thanks to my pen and notepad are in order.

Up on this mountain it’s not too bad. I breathe in and breathe out, a significant change of altitude and fresh air provide me with a dose of liveliness.

Dead. No other word for the look that my reflection gave me. Mental demons shouting, flames having intercourse with my skull, a loud, ignorant environment and a social life that laid somewhere on the cemetery. I did not like life at this point. It was about time to buy that rope or pack of razor blades, whichever was on sale. But somehow I didn’t. I spent my money more wisely and bought a backpack and a plane ticket.

The plane started speeding up, the wheels left ground and I ascended.

It’s about time to head down. Explore the city for a bit to see if social skills can actually be resurrected. The stairs that lead down this mountain are steep. I’ll take it one step at a time. Let’s see if happiness is somewhere out there. For now pain and numbness remain my loyal companions. But hey: I managed to escape. I managed to break free, all by myself. In my own way I’m kind of a Freddie Mercury, without the aides.

Enough for now, quit the lame word puns, put on that fake smile of yours, stand up straight, fight the urge to jump off this mountain and give your new life a try. I mean there’s birds chirping and shit. That’s nice, right?

Talk to you soon.

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