Hasta el fin.

Scrambling rambles.

In life, we feel emotion, we take part in events, we do things and have things done to us; all passages in a slow moving, step by step epic novel on a delving study into the essence of human nature... Mine, by matter of chance or fate, happens to be constituted of several quite distinctly different, 'closed' chapters. Chapters only to live on in passive memoria, surging forwards with a rush of adrenalin during nostalgic reunions and recollection frenzies with characters from other books, having once upon a time played various roles in similar chapters. However. When you turn the final page and flash a prolonged glance at the emboldened capital markings “THE END”, how much do you really remember of that very first chapter; the feelings and thoughts associated with being at that given point in time and place? What do you do when it's all over? Can you tuck life in a cardboard box n up on your mums attic? If so, do we live just to end our lives in the hope of yet another climax? Aren’t we always anxious to get somewhere, to arrive at a set destination before time is up? To me it often seems I spend all my time and effort trying to get further along the path, however always ending up getting there faster than anticipated only to reconfigure the gps, adding on new destinations and leaving behind yet another past to miss. We really only ever live in the now, the past forever lost yet somehow eternalized as stardust sticks to the core. A moment never comes back, you can never relive it; you only do everything once.

Enjoy the ride as much as the destination.
- Boatcarguy.

Jetlag has become an integral part of travel, and this time wasn’t any different; only now it was not so much of the body, but of the mind. There is quite a surreal feeling attached to physically walking around in what used to be the original life, trying to accept it as once again new while mentally lagging in the realm of the what used to be reality, which, in the space of around forty eight hours, became a never to return to past. The pillars of the old take some time to crumble, but the rubble never disappears. There always will be a dome on the rock. Much like a really really long dream... The entire situation is comparable to how I felt when starting “Chapter 7: The Honduran”; only this time it was an even vaguer pseudo-reality as only a machete, white n blue flag and a handful of candy stand testimony of an entire year. There is more, of course there is more. Only that more goes down deep, incorporating itself into the basic system; a slow and careful process of altering the blueprint of the mind. The solidarity of it all spices things up to yet another notch; the only connection between that particular year of life and the rest of my former life, is me, and nothing else. And that is why, ladies and gentleman, I compare it to a dream. We live as we dream; alone. Its a lot to take at once, but it sets you straight. You learn a lot, and loose just as much. The latter probably being as, if not more, important. Out with the old in with the new, polish down to the pure before painting over.

Life experience has become much like any other drug; all the life you have had in the past just leaves you hungering for more. As stated in large squiggly letters on the Government of Belize billboards; "Get high of life, say no to drugs"