Pedro Ávila

You know things are getting weird when your life starts resembling a Dear Abby column. Things around me loom with an eclectic blend of mutant colors and vibrant nightmares…too many of the things I want nothing to do with in these travels around this here ball of fire.

That’s what I was thinking today when contemplating a decent beginning for this first post of the new year. But then, you know what happened? I thought to myself, Holy God, I don’t want to have to write this shit, so I put my pen down and went out to watch the river go by. It doesn’t run or whisper like it used to, frozen now into a viscous gel that makes it seem lazy. It’s too depressing; too dangerous to be near in my current state of mind.

The easiest way to fill a room, I’ve heard, is to light a match. As it happens, it’s also the cheapest. And fuck it — the room may be filled with a heroin-laced propane and amazing amounts of crude-based fuels and other assorted flammables like ether and whiskeys…

But you know what? Hand me that match. Let’s see if things don’t change, right quick. The room is after all, dark and empty, and I can change that.

C’mon. Who’s got a light?


And I’ll do it, if it comes down to that. I’m not quite there, but that’s what drives my fear. That’s what keeps me biting nails and walking on the edge of blades. I’m certain it’s all for the worse – no good can come from this. And on this side of crazy, you can always see that fear. No need to wait for the sun to descend into the depths of the sea to watch the light fade and the weirdos come out –

_it’s automatic and instinctual,

habitual and cyclical.

On this side of insane,

a sea of red with a pocket of blue,

where a dream can be changed by a shade of tan,

the wild tamed, or a glimpse of fame

and no trace of a clue,

life is absent from the teeming hoards

of of no-job playboys in Old Navy cords…_

Sorry, sorry. There he goes again with that shit. I digress. My nerves will often extend into the concrete that surrounds me and those are the times when…

Shit. It really is time to do something.

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