I thought that I heard you laughing

If the thoughts, emotions and experiences one has throughout life can be seen as the thread gradually assembling their life's garment, I think I would be immediately able to spot this year's patch in mine.  It would be visible by the course thread that shoved itself obstinately through two fabrics.  That thin, veil-like material that comes in bolts of feigning pink and angry fuchsia -- that is the one of my identity.  It's very existence testifies to indulgence rather than durability, and the seamstress has to use fine scissors when cutting it, so as not to offend.  The thick, earth toned corduroy that lies underneath is that of the Church.  It is used to being summarized as the institutions, personalities, and ideals one person encounters as she gradually becomes convinced she knows it.  The very fact that needles have to be changed in order for it to be penetrated begs the question if the veil will withstand the stitch -- or if it will get caught and sent into fraying fits along the way, tight fists of fabric and thread to be patiently unravelled and salvaged before continuing.
My first week of classes here, alone, were enough to prove valid the sneaking suspicion that I was silly to think I could trip into this continent, and insert myself into the Roman system.  Since then, I have talked myself down from furious promises and solemn swears made in the dark.  Promises I made to myself to abort the premature mission, cut my losses, and return to safe ground before the already vulnerable flame of my personal identity was suffocated to the point of exhaustion.  I would rather, I have been certain, maintain the spontaneous warmth I could count on feeling at least from time to time among the passageways between my heart and mind than have it permanently highjacked. Before my personality, body, and creativity were shoved underground in some wet corner of this cold, stone city, I had to return to where I could know, where I am known.
But, what if I stayed?  Would it be pride?  Fear?  Or would it be the beginnings of reconciling the materials I have been given in this life to where they may no longer need to be so blatantly contradictory, or laboringly dramatic, but just whole.