Bullies Do Exist

9 July 5:00 A.M.

Afflicted by the pungent of sunscreen-stained clothes and skin, the battle to sleep rages on - me wrestling a torturously fluffy pillow, unable to sleep despite residing in the undoubtedly most comfortable best I've run my fingers across in the past year. Reminiscent of Edmund Dantés escape from Château d'If when his servant enters to wake him one morning, the servant starts incredulously that his master would willing make his pallet on the cold and dirty floor than recline sweetly on a mattress of most expensive and elaborate repose, I find the scars I now gladly bear accost my once unadorned and overlooked peaceful sleeping habits.

A simple, cruel cackle, as that from a jealous schoolyard bully, incessantly prods my consciousness as though a sizzling cattle prod seared the painted images of Egypt inside my eyelids, leaving out what it lacked1. To capture elusive rest, I must remain awake to remind me of current circumstance. The stench of this frying flesh draws salty tears like a broken bucket from a dark, deep well. As was the case when upon our departure from Romania, when one leaves the trifecta of blood, sweat (oh how much sweat!), and tears in a single place, that one person inevitably and supernaturally joins in life with that place, whether for the good or the bad only time will tell.

As I imagine amalgamated Egypt [author secretly chuckles at the irony], a smug and seemingly content grin twist maliciously onto the Conglomerate plaque, as if to taunt my dreams in the wee small hours of the morning, uncaring of the 5000 mile chasm between here and there. A resentful insinuation of irritating awareness claws deep in these ragged hours, "If you were here now, you wouldn't have these thoughts or problems; you'd be carousing familiar, embracing streets." But isn't that the whisper of the Enemy. Those thoughts stink of Satan's deception. I will indeed treasure my time and experience of Egypt, however I will not let the Deceiver posthumously ruin the transformation our God has brought about within me.

1. lyrics from Twila Paris' song Painting Pictures of Egypt.




What will you miss about Egypt?
-In America, I often feel as though I don't measure up. I don't meet the minimum standards of masculinity. In Egypt, the treat you like a king. There is no mask. I could be whoever I wanted because they didn't care who I wasn't. They only cared for who I was. Whether it for truth or cash, the feeling remains the same.