Cadaques, Spain

If I had a moped I wouldn’t have to think as hard. Walking back home from Kixa’s the world changes and the cold creeps through my jacket. The rain pooling in dark corners and the street fuzzy from darkness, both make me think. The bright lights of cars pass occasionally, illuminating the rutted track and allowing me to see. If I had a moped I could speed around the bends, clattering down the semi-paved hill with my broken muffler sending muddy dogs into frenzied barking. I could concentrate on my driving and the wind in my hair. As it is my hands are wedged into pockets and I am forced to consider things I usually try and avoid as the road stretches before me.

I want to go onwards and finish this quarter and yet everything gets harder. Steve shows it more than me, his posture slightly stooped, moods erratic, idiosyncrasies more pronounced. The truth is we had fully believed things would become less of a struggle for me, for instance that any mood swings I had would have diminished or vanished. Instead I still fly from one extreme to another and as my workload increases so does my reaction. In other areas I scrape past, my math skills still hopelessly inadequate and my physical fitness level now steadily dropping.

If I had a moped then maybe I could focus on the positive. When I ride with Yuma or Maya, legs banging against theirs, one hand jamming the tiny helmet against my head, then I feel brilliant. Flying along darkened roads I can remember that last week I completed two papers, that the week before I stayed in a library for three hours without break to get the research I needed for school. My Sat score is manageable and I have time to see my friends every other day.

Of course I don’t have a moped. Most nights then, I take the long trip home on foot with leaky Blunstones getting my socks muddy. and alone, wishing for a chance to ride into oblivion.