The fire of the exotic

Note-this was originally written during my rather depressed time this past winter. I still feel this way sometimes, but as I describe, it is only triggered by certain events or experiences.

Once the fire of the exotic settles in your soul, it is impossible to be rid of it. You can deny it, forget about it, store it away, but it will never be gone. It will come back to you in flashes of visions, in a smell, in a person on the street that you thought you’ve seen before. You’re at work, so you push the memory down, so it settles in your stomach like a burning ember. You are in church, so you steal a glance at your family to inject a fresh thought into your mind. You’re with your lover, so you look away to hide the fact that you’re thinking of something that you cannot ever share with them.

For me, it is the scent of a wood fire from the poor villages of Mexico. Eggs on a bolillo. The polished white tile floors, everything clean and white and pure. The heat of the morning. The eternal springtime. Bugambillia. Majestic mountains. The Aztec histories. Tortillas and lime. Jocoque. These are what I am tortured with, as I look around my gray office. As I look outside on the gray skies, the eternal greyness only broken by still-bare trees. This is torture, too much to bear. Because this was no mere vacation taken in Mexico. It was an introduction to beauty, a subject that will ever fester until I am instructed in it by the Master himself.


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