Symptomatic 4

Something Kafka once said about Truth being indivisible and not being able to recognize itself held sway over my decisions in the next few days. I wanted to maintain high ideals and believe I was in the right, to be an adventurer, to earn my stripes, to boldly go…blah, blah, blah, but I knew I was waffling, and would not admit to myself that I had just fucked up and could not bring myself around to rectifying. Like a cat that bumps into the furniture and then continues blithely across the room, I would say I wanted things to happen so. I was meeting my fate. Recalling both the film I had watched and my primo’s maxim, I wondered how difficult it might be to shimmy through the space between traveling without proper documentation and the pain of retribution if caught, and foolishly compared myself to all those poor farmers who creeped up North out of necessity, though I knew full well they did not begin their journeys from capacious Acapulco on a whim as I had.