A new post from Spain.  I want to apologize for my last couple.  They were inappropriate, and now no longer exist.

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31 Mar 2008.  4:02am.

I look back and read what I've written, and I'm shocked and disgusted by the brazen way I juxtaposed things that shouldn't be put together, and with the way I presented myself, and even more so by my own actions.

I'm not ever going to see Marina again.

Ever.

It's the middle of the night, but for the last week I haven't been able to sleep.  At all.  I throw on some clothes, grab my rockboxed Sansa, and walk quietly out of the door, careful not to disturb Cameron.  Perhaps going for a walk at three in the morning is a bad idea, but I need some air.

I wander aimlessly, lost in thought, trying to figure out where I went wrong.

Scratch that.  I know exactly where I went wrong.  Wrong was putting myself in a situation I knew would turn out bad.  Wrong was giving in to things I know lead down paths I don't want to have anything to do with.

'Good Friday' was all wrong.

The music drifting from my earphones envelops me, wraps around me like an ephemeral call from a siren.

'The shadows . . .'

The shadows creep around me, poking their fugitive heads around corners and from under benches and cars.  I can almost see their faces, dark and impish, with pinpoint eyes shining like sinister diamonds.

'. . . shadows

of the dead . . .'

It's as though my sins, my mistakes, all the dead in me, have become flesh - they watch, they wait, biding their time.  Aching for me to succumb to them again.  Their long, bony hands reach from the darkness to grab me.

'. . . in the silence

in the night . . .'

I begin to run, trying to sweat out my past, cut out my indiscretions, escape these shadows of temptation.  They take chase, a furious army of demented gremlins mimicking my every movement.

I push myself harder, running faster, anything to escape what I fear I'm becoming.  Suddenly I'm on the beach.  (What is it about the Mediterranean that continually, subliminally calls to me?)  The shadow goblins coalesce into a hideous, dark version of me.  I hear its voice: "Don't run away from us, I'm what you can become.  Give in to us.

"Let yourself fall.  Let yourself be.  Don't follow antiquated social norms in the name of religion."

I run full tilt towards the sea.

'. . . close your eyes

and see the stars . . .'

I run as fast as I can, but it's not enough.  My shadow self catches me, covers me, begins to consume me.  I'm covered by a thick, nameless tar - my sins made tangible.

I do the only thing I can.

'. . . the shadows

and tremors . . .'

I kick off my shoes and dive in to the water, swimming as fast as I can.  I hear a scream of agony as the darkness begins to wash off, sloughing off with each stroke.

The Mediterranean is cleansing me, offering me hope as I swim ever eastward.

'. . . of the sun . . .'

There's a tinge of pink on the horizon, a deep magenta colliding with the dark indigo of the sea.

I continue to swim.  I finally feel like I'm free of the ghosts of my past, though my arms ache and my heart beats a million miles an-

I practically leap out of bed as my eyes snap open.  My entire body is soaked in sweat - it's dripping off my brow, coating my arms and legs.

But for the first time in over a week, I feel okay.  I slither out of bed and kneel, thanking God and once again asking his forgiveness and help.

I finally feel that familiar, chill-inducing xylophone arpeggio run up and down my spine as my heart burns.

I finally know things will be okay.

I finally feel some peace.