I'm going through withdrawals.
Visions of Altar and Nogales filled my dreams last night. I saw them again. I was back at the bus station. Their backpacks were slung over one shoulder, Coca Colas from a nearby vending machine perched in their hands. Waiting, again, to leave.
The truck bouncing down the dirt road on a night filled with stars and darkness. Vans speeding down the stretch on their way to a place of no return for some. I felt the heat, the stickiness of that night. I saw the rows of backpacks, toiletries for their survival.
I'm coming down from a sleep hangover of sorts from sleeping too much...dreaming too much. My body seems to crave the sleep deprivation that came from those adrenaline-filled nights. Maybe it'll go away in a few days or a few weeks. Maybe the grip of the border is just tight from the newness of the separation. The addiction is tightly wound by a sense of longing today.
The questions resurface. I thought I'd clearly answered them over a month ago when the adventure had first begun. How could anyone love the crowded streets, the mangy dogs, the cracked pavement and dirty towns? Filth in the gutters, in the "massage parlors," the strip clubs and transvestite hang outs.
I saw the towering police chief and his chronies. I heard the music from the discotecas floating into the streets; Usher crooning "yeeahh," Nelly, "it's gettin' hot in here." Nogales, porque te amo?
I'll go back to school in less than a week, but I'll miss the schooling I had this summer on the border where the subject was less about books and more about life. A tale of survival and corruption.