Do you ever hate yourself for knowing that your poor brain, that only lives up to, what, 10% of its potential, will soon forget things you want to save forever?

On my run through Belgrano yesterday, I kept finding myself wishing I could take panoramic screen shots of my surroundings and store them deep within a fold of an uninhibited cortex to pull out whenever I wanted. I realized too, though, that it’s not just still moments in time I crave to keep, but sensations, feelings, and moments. I hate myself for knowing that I’ll forget what it feels like to run through a downpour in San Telmo. I hate myself for knowing that I’ll forget the way dogs walk themselves within the borders of cross walks here, what it feels like to be thrown around like a limp rag doll when the home team scores during the last ten minutes of a soccer game, or the way people here still say ‘buenos tardes‘ at 8pm because God knows they’re not eating dinner until at least 10.

I hate myself for knowing that I’ll forget the route that my trusty 93 takes, or the tone in Gloria’s voice as she says (without fail or any sort of deviation) “Chicaaaaas, a comer!” when it’s time for dinner with a side of crema. I hate myself for knowing that I’ll forget the feeling of gliding on the B Line, or the taste of dulce de leche. I hate myself for knowing that I’ll forget how many steps it is to get to la lavanderia, or the way my hands feel stickier after I wipe them with the wax-paper napkins the restaurants here swear by and shamelessly offer chanchas like me. I hate myself for knowing that I will forget the conversations I’ve had with taxi drivers, with perfect strangers, with peers, and with Gloria. I hate myself for knowing that I will forget the normalcy of splitting a bottle of wine until 3am and dancing until 8, only to do it again without fail or reservation.

All I want is to keep every moment in time. Every smile, touch, spoken word, movement, giggle, moment of embarrassment – every sound, every square inch of chipping paint, every whistling man, every honking bus — everything. My heart is breaking today as I pack my suitcases (which feel mysteriously and mischievously lighter than when I arrived) to the tune of steady rain on Heredia y Alvarez Tomas.

Here’s what I have on repeat – which very well could be at least 45% responsible for this hopelessly reflective and all-too-personal word vomit of a blog post:

Lock it up, Nicole!

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