The person who wrote these notes passed away the moment his feet touched Argentine soil again.
That familiar feeling, the one he instantly recognized, yet hated all the same came back.
It was as if no time had passed, but he was in a much different place.
A place so different that it had stayed the same
A place that he recognized all too well
And a place he wished did not exist.
This place held nothing to him and yet it held so much:
His past, his memories, all which made him who he was.
But he wanted nothing more than to go away, knowing fully that that never was nor ever will be an option.
It was in him. It was him. It would forever be him.
And he was gone.
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