Waiting in Panama

Another day marking time. Rain washes away the overpowering humidity, leaving it in stilled  pools on the litter strewn ground.

La Brisas, Balboa, La Calzada de Amador. Names unknown to me just short days ago I now call home, and will forget them as quickly as they fade into a hazy horizon of life.

Las Perlas are calling, temptation is strong, yet I wait still, knowing how regret will follow leaving if leaving comes too soon. Before those last minute provisions are on-board. Inventory complete. Contingencies accounted for like known mile markers on an unknown road.

In vain I try to write, each thought forever jarred from my mind by the wake of passing ships. Wave monsters passing in or out of the hungry canal steal every line and feeling. Ideas once cognizant, now fading threads following in their wet passage before falling complete into the turbid sea.

A handful of words wrapped in a fleeting thought. An insignificant measure of progress, only to be edited out with clear mind on still water.

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Author: A.J.

I have written as far back as I can recall. Until 2011, that writing was just for me, or as rambling letters to friends and travelogues to the family. I never thought about why, or if others did similarly, and the thought of publishing never entered my head. Since I left England in 1979, I have been collecting experiences, people, and places. From the blood-soaked streets of Kampala, the polluted dust bowls of the Sahara, or the pristine ice floes of the Antarctic, I have gathered and filed them away. Some have recently squeezed through the bars of insecurity and are now at large in the pages of my first three novels. Others await their future fates.

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