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I count the days till I go home and they are too many and yet too few.

I think of what happened to her and all my sorrow and outrage leak out again.

I speak at length with a friend and have the sensation of being simultaneously trusted and betrayed.

I speak briefly with another friend and feel the last month of intimacy chill within a week into a relational winter.

I ask myself what it is I’m doing here; my head knows the answer but my heart can’t work out why I’m stuck in the Andes, again.

I read a piece about justice and rationality and remember this is why I and all the others cling to Reason – it makes the hurt make sense to the point that it almost (but not quite …) goes away.

But my heart doesn’t understand any of the logic in any of this pain, in how my path is woven into the paths of others, in religion, in the things we do to ourselves and to each other.

This is where I search for, and find, that place of faith where my mind and my heart speak the same language. And both of them know that all is well. Or at least it will be.

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