Follow the light

My brush with death. Was it Divine Karma that sent that blood clot up my leg and into my lungs so that I'd be in the Emergency Room rather than in front of a speeding train? Am I not meant to move to Mexico until next year? Does my pulmonary embulism portend a deeper, viler condition? Was it all inevitible?

There are many unanswered questions. Mexico floats in my mind like a dense fog; deep throated horns echo off the edges of my brain. I'm planted on a bench, absorbing the sun in the Alameda. I'm strolling across the immense Zocalo. I'm sitting at a sidewalk cafe, sipping on a Pacifico, fascinated with the buzz of the busy urban rush.

I am neither here nor there.
I am neither dead nor alive.