Pedro Ávila

As the days wane my excitement grows. Smiles escape me more easily with the night coming sooner, darker.

Winter — real winter — approaches. Snows fall on distant mountains. Waves on the coast swell like a cornered animal. A storm looms__ on the horizon. It is dark, I am alone, and outside it is cold.

I am glad.

With this change in the viscosity of the air comes a new kind of inspiration, one desperately needed in the days past. My summer juice is all but depleted and new blood do I require. I have been hidden by forces outside my control for far too long by sickness and injury, and soon the shackles must break. Nature will feel my touch again as I venture through its fingers unhampered by intimidation.

I’m talking about Europe, of course.

Again its history will be experienced as the ancient air runs over my skin, its worn cobblestones pass under my feet.

My words and my wonders will latch on to its novelty and intrigue like moss on stone or ivy on wood, and when I return I will be more invigorated than ever. Like a junkie I crave it more and more with each use of the drug, but unlike the addict, with each new hit the ecstasy is more intense and the anticipation of the next is difficult, at best.

Sometimes it is debilitating to the point of near depression. Sometimes, if routine kicks in too deeply; if the fat on me grows; if the air thickens too much with triviality to the point where change seems inconvenient; where Gap is a creative venture, where I start to look like one of them

No, friends. That just can’t happen. I abhor the thought.

I am too much of a human being to let myself become such a nationalist. Too many have been my laughs with the different folk of foreign lands; my frowns at the diverse difficulties of others, too many in number. On too much despair have my eyes fallen; on too many troubles has my mind dwelled. I am not one of these people. I came from afar, and thus will I continue. I will not linger longer than life will allow…

This life of stability, of contentment, of perfect bliss will someday change. It may fall apart, or it may find its way to a better one…

I don’t know.

But I must be ready for it when it does.

Pedro Ávila Pedro Ávila

For a reasonably sane & productive member of society (arguable, but let’s not complicate things), I’m far too mobile and unrooted. I travel quite a bit for a job that is simultaneously my greatest privilege and my worst burden.

So I write. And I write. Travel pieces, political journalism (a stretch from ranting but, still), short stories, poetry and other such riff-raff. I contribute to a handful of publications and will probably just keep going until something gives out, or someone gives in.


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Of smiles and roars