I seem to have lost my identity somewhere between the folds of Toronto's concrete gravity and underneath the currents of this great Atlantic.
Since I was a child, I believed that freedom was across the sea, awaiting me in a foreign country where the view in my room was as fantastic as this. But no.
My heart remains in chains for an entirely different reason, and the more I learn to listen to her whispers, I realize no where I go can hush the quiet hums of a wild and beating heart.
She yearns for absolute sincerity. She longs for truth, not the tangible. Transparency, vulnerability. I do not search for what is real anymore in a playground of illusion. Yet the paradox exists, and I am only a newborn in understanding the language of the Heart. When we have spent a lifetime relating to one another with emptiness and cunning intellect... I look at myself in the mirror and see a fraud.
And there is no Rio, or England or Hawaii
Jamaica or Ilha Grande that can save me from this reflection. I see her looking back and begging behind a fickle grin to shatter the glass in between us.
I don't know where I will end up in all of this.
Tomorrow I board a plane back to Toronto. My depression is masked here by warmth and Acai.
My humor has returned to play across my sunkissed skin. A part of me wants to forever escape the coldness of Canada's winter. Another part of me wants to be buried in it. The ice, the hermit. The season of reflection and meditation.
I want to brave the storms of my grief and its strong currents that pull me and those close to me out to sea. I find beauty in my sadness. But beneath that, lay a greater truth in that it does not define me.