Viana do Castelo

I have made it a point to endure the reality recoil once this short sabbatical is all said and done. The reality is that not much has changed, except for the sudden dwindling of my funds. I spent more of my finances in the last few days rather than the totality of my camino. Slightly effete for a man whose claim to life is my spirituality; that smug and self-righteous opinion that the world is mine and it owes me a living. Rather than claim it, it seems to me that I have instead lost any sense of it. It is not an invalidation of the whole duration of this experience, it is more rather my epiphany. When I arrived in Finisterre with a duo of misfits, I sought not to throw any valuable that I held dear simply because I did not want any of my possession to be a ritual for my own salvation, instead I sought it to live for the sake of my own oblivion. I will stand tall.

But the long stretch of not communicating with Ainhoa stirs my thoughts day in and day out, waning my mannerisms. It is a matter of great value to me, and it is improbable, not impossible, to let go. It has not really been that easy. And to this day I remember our first exchange, and it eats at me, for lord knows how long still.