so, i wont be continuing the hiking story right now but later i´ll be sure to finish it up.

i think that now i wanted to talk about mornings, wood smoke, chills, roosters, roads, brothers, mothers, families, addiction, challenges, myself and all that is in between. week 2 settles in like a cold unfamiliar blanket and i find myself crying as i drift off to sleep writing poems in my head about my history and the story of wolves and the stories of those who came before me. the flutter of bat wings beats around my room, i am not alone and my roommates diet consists mostly of bugs so i tell la murciélago ´the bat´ to invite its friends over so that i no longer need to sleep with bug repellent on my ears and arms. its not that its so troubling i just dont want malaria and its not that i dont want malaria, but its more so that i do not want to die right now or maybe ever. in 22 years ive seen the tips of so many things that just need to be explored deeper and if i die now, then poof! there go my dreams and my casket will fill with tears because even when dead ill be crying for what i missed and my grave will turn into a swamp where the flies and frogs will congregate and over time the plants will grow, lilies and cat o nine tails and moss and my body will feed them and the lilies will bloom and spread like weeds over the other graves and then the graveyard will become a playground for children who catch frogs and run in the mud scraping thier knees, crying for thier parents and ill stop crying cause ill know thay my death has brough happiness to generations and ill remember when i was young and when i caught frogs in gaint white plastic buckets inwhich the ribbits and bull calls of frogs would echoe like a sousaphone stuck in an elevator on the 44th floor of an office building that no one wanted to be in and the people would hear the sousaphone playing and stand up from thier desks and go looking for the music that they all wanted to be playing or that they all played in middle school but somewhere between now and then they lost the notes or sold their instruments sold thier dreams and the others will crawl beneath thier own desks to look in the darkness for a warmth which they let go of when their own dreams stopped playing and thier own desires stopped clamoring for attention and they let it fall by the wayside, just below the curb of the high sidewalks of ocotal´s streets like i drop my orange peel, like i drop my eyes, like i turn away from the beggars and the drunks because i think i have no choice and i wonder what is true or not.

but right now, what is true is that i have homework which needs to be done.