The mornings here are like god. I live for the mornings. One thing that can be said for Paraguay, despite everything else unfortunate about this country, is that the mornings are beautiful. For me, perhaps it is the novelty of waking up at 5:30 am before the sun has even risen to sip slowly my cup of coffee and listen to the birds and the farm animals. Dawn seems to drag across the sky for most of the day, holding on to the atmosphere with the infinite potentiality that only the morning can possess. I do not wake because of the sun, I wake for the sun, to kneel briefly at its alter in sleepy reverence. The ripples of light echo across the ocean of sky, domed over this flat land, stretching from unseen horizon to horizon unseen.
In the morning, my flaws are forgotten, my hope and love remain intact, the shortcomings not yet short and still to come. In these few hushed hours, I can revisit the calmness of the night. Yesterday is still a memory that I can taste on the cool air in my lungs. The overwhelming weight of life, at least the weight that I seem to be carrying as of late, has not yet been lowered onto my shoulders. I am light and free, if only for just a moment, to live in the illusion that perhaps I am at home. Perhaps the love that I feel I am loosing is in fact still waiting for me in the bed I have just left, keeping the sheets warm and longing for my return. Words don’t form in my mind at this time of day and instead I am left with just the feeling of being, a simplicity and a perfection that is somehow outside of the material, beyond the hollow, heavy mass of thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts.
By midday, all of this is gone, replaced instead by the oppressive heat that saps life from the land. The summer hours are far from that which I usually feel when my skin bristles with the heat of a full sun, dancing with the dose of ecstasy that only Vitamin D and warmth can provide. Instead, this heat goes to the mind and breaks the spell of the morning. There is an intensity to it, an endlessness within it, and a seeming loss of hope because of it. It drains energy. It forces one to see the monotony in this life, the distressful reality of a heat that never ends. It feels sometimes as if one will never be happy again, as if there is nothing more to this world than the sun and its subject. Somewhere above, there is a magnifying glass intent on burning me alive. It almost succeeds every day. The rain will never come. She, as well, is never coming back. Paraguay in the afternoons is depressing.
The evening comes on quietly, sneaking under the tyrannical and sadistic eye of of the midday. The pools of sweat that have gathered where I laid to escape the inescapable sun slowly turn cool and moist. The sun dips below the trees. Stars begin to peek like timid animals from their shelter in the oncoming darkness. Their time is almost here, but they possess a fear it seems, a well heeded and well deserved fear of the sun. When night finally comes it is with relief but without progress. The lack of progress, the repetition, the feeling as if this same process will be played out again tomorrow weighs heavy on the mind. But at least it is not so hot.
In this thought there is some comfort. The hope in the slow-coming morning gives light to the darkness. Tomorrow, nothing will change, but at least tomorrow morning I will once again be suspended and unaware of that reality. I can live for a few moments in the illusion of change and better-ness, in love and its strength in this world. I can feel again the patience that makes the difficulties of this world bearable, loosing myself in the bliss of naivety, idealism and a cup of coffee. I will toast the sun with through sleepy eyes and without words. I will be doing this for a long time. Two years seems like an eternity. I am lost within myself.