coyhaique to quellon, Chiloé Island

What should I say? Who should I pretend I'm talking to? The people I normally write letters? Mundo, Anni, Scott? I have nothing to say.  What am I supposed to say? Rain clouds moving in and Be says, “I don't feel good about this.” When things get hard, she doesn't feel good. And I get harsh, irritated, mean. Hello, this Kelsey. Here in Chile. On a boat away from the mountains. My choice as much as Be’s. T intersection and I wanted to go right. To go north. But we talked it through and it was true, my body felt more relaxed going left, towards the sea. So we turned left and I cried and I cried and the road went downhill instead of up and every time I asked myself, “is this the right decision?” Songbirds. Yellow ones. Or the ones with white and black stripes on their heads. Or the little brown birds. More than I've seen on this entire trip. Flitting, flying forward, along my side. Zooming in front of Be. “Okay.” Okay. Even when it doesn't make sense, I know how to listen to my body. Know how to listen to those little signs. Forward, West. To Puerto Cisnes. Where the ferry didn't run to Chaiten till next Monday. Where Quellon was the option, that night, at 11 PM. 

So here I sit. Ten hours into a 20 hour ferry ride.  To where? To some place different.  Some place I chose based off of belly, body— not head or my incessant want. And what is it? I want it hard. I want it uphill. I want those mountains. Because I want that pushing feeling. Like wrestling on the dance floor, arms around someone's waist. pushing. Shoving. Grunting. Because it's what gets below the feeling. This feeling, this one: The I CAN’T DO IT.  The Numero Uno intimate relationship feeling. Because I can push. I can pedal up big hills. I can push my body to its breaking point. 

But this feeling. 

This:

You don't matter. 

You can't trust. 

Gotta gotta gotta get away. 

Because, presumably, I had no choice. Assumedly, at one point, I couldn't get away. Wound, wound, old wound, activated all the time, right now. 

But we coasted down towards the water. Past cliff sides, mountains, a break in the clouds, waterfalls by the dozen per green cliff. And then the rainbow. left side. A little glance back. “Oh I was looking for you ,” I said. Because there have been rainbows along this entire journey. starting from when Mundo drove me to the Vancouver airport and the sky stormed, but there, to the right and then in front of us, huge, vibrant, Arco iris. And during the taxi ride between Buenos Aires airports. And I've lost count of all the others. not every day, not even every week, but yesterday. Some sort of balm,  reassurance — it's okay to leave the ecosystem you love. 

There will be more mountains. There will be more mountains.

The bike ride is not over, thank goodness. And even though I can't see the meaning of this ride right now, can't say its importance, i just want to keep going. Want to push. Push, push. Push past? Push through? Just want to feel my breathing laboured. Want to feel that rush of wind when the downhill comes.  I want to break. I think that’s true. Want to push so hard so there is nothing left to do. Because then maybe something will be different. Maybe then some worth will be gained. Something I can hold onto. Walk back to his hands. Hold them and say, “I did it.” I did it. I broke my biggest pattern. Now I don’t have to go away. 

Because something’s gotta give. Pressure building. Rain for the next week and I just want to keep going. 

(Kelsey)