"So how long have you been in BA for?"
"About 4 days."
"Where else are you traveling?"
I smirk, take a second to gulp away any remaining throat-lodged beer, and begin to read my auto-response phrase book, lodged somewhere between my temporal lobe and that hole where my primary motor cortex should reside.
"Nowhere, at this stage. I'm living here full-time now."
Full-time is a strange way to describe your living status. In my case, however, it is very apt. Two times previous I've enjoyed a temporary posting here, involving myself in the cities lifestyle. Both times I've felt an insatiable desire to extend my stay in the city. I can't explain exactly why, Buenos Aires isn't the only city with interesting bars, staggering amounts of nightlife, or cheaper living expenses. Nor is it the only city with intriguing social clicks; both native and foreigners alike. Maybe its the seemingly unsolvable puzzle of how on earth can this place function practically. Never is there a dull night, always an outing somewhere down a maze of streets if your heart desires. Clubs run regular weeknight functions, and people don't just attend, they bring a true weekend spirit, with late nights and debauchery a standard procedure. No half assed token turn outs. You're out and clock watching is the last thing on your mind.
How does a person in my position, a full-time hustler, making an income off bad gamblers, exposed traders, and an endless typing of recursion functions, with no set working time nor day, not fall into the abyss of perpetual nightly degeneracy? Never has life felt like such a constant balancing act. Last time I never had to worry, I was in holiday mode, and booked in my name was a return ticket home. I've always considered my willpower one of my stronger attributes, always reliable, but never would I lose respect for what it provides for me. Never, however, has it ever been truly tested outside of my motherland Australia and its creature comforts. Should I be scared about this? People travel here to live in the moment, like the locals do, day at a time, step by step. Without my willpower, however, what do I really have? Brains? Nothing that can't be slowly poising at El Alamo. A dependable safety net I can turn to? Nothing I can count on. Every morning I awaken with a burdening stomach knot, dreading having to walk into my bathroom and see my reflection in the mirror. I fear to stare at myself, not through lack of confidence at who I am now, but because maybe, one day in the future, I don't recognise the face gazing back at me. All that I dream of, all that I wish to become, that is me. Everything else, my attributes, my experience, those tangible qualities, it could all be a dream of mine, a misjudged pool of water that turned out to be an oasis, another one of my reckless life assessments. But my ambitions, my desire to arrive at a place in life, I can always count on that. I know that. Its a tattoo to me, one etched on my soul. But everyday that tattoo could be washing off slowly, and suddenly its gone, leaving me to clean up the ink siphoning its way towards the drain pipe like a poured chemical.
I'm now living here full-time, 365, 24/7. I just hope that the person writing this post here today doesn't change suddenly.
