The careening falsetto of Hawaiian music wafts through my open windows and the neighbor’s static radio blares in the breeze. All I want to do is sleep, and I spy the blue skies from the jalousies and the rip of my sheer curtains. It was supposed to rain, but trade winds have shifted and now vog hovers over the island. The last strum of the acoustic guitar rings and a cheesy broadcaster introduces another outdated song from two decades ago.
So this is paradise. I call this place home.
In the distance, a siren reels and a helicopter flies too low over the roof of my house. I should probably be at the beach, but I’m not. When have I become so cynical? When have I embraced this depression that has so long veiled my life?
When I lived in San Francisco, I loved the fog. Driving down the 280 alongside the coast felt free especially hitting the highlight beams of the car through the thickness of density. In contrast, this island, is bright and sunny. Instead of covering up in layers, the sun forces one to shed of the facade and exposes yourself near nakedness. Vulnerable. And thoughts of getting bikini-ready for summer adds another layer of stress. Not really.
But I am still here. Nothing has changed. I am still me.