A Journey Beyond Sight: Rediscovering Mexico’s Soul with Reece O’Bryan

I moved from Kentucky to Mexico City,
traded bluegrass for something like salsa in the air.
Can’t see a damn thing, but I’ve learned:
you don’t need eyes for chaos.
Here, life’s a mariachi band on fast-forward,
the horns blaring loud,
like they’re trying to outshout the traffic,
the mopeds, the vendors yelling “¡Tamales!”
at volumes that feel like they’re aimed at me—
like they know I can’t see the steam rise
or the sun baking the streets.

Back home, I knew every creak of a porch swing,
the way the grass swayed soft underfoot,
the slow, lazy hum of a summer afternoon,
like time itself was in no rush to leave.
Here, time is a runaway bus,
horn honking as it speeds past,
and I swear, it almost hits me every time.
But maybe that’s just my imagination.

The smells here—God, the smells.
In Kentucky, it was hay and honeysuckle,
bourbon barrels aging slow,
all rolling hills and tobacco fields.
But here, it’s a stew of chilies and gasoline,
fried food and smog.
It hits you right in the face— no warning, no mercy.
And don’t get me started on the heat.
It’s like someone cranked the sun up a notch
just to watch me sweat.

But then, there’s something magical too.
The city’s heartbeat pulses under my feet.
The cobblestones are alive,
whispering stories from centuries past.
Aztec chants, Spanish prayers,
and now, me—just a blind gringo
trying to find his way
through this sprawling maze of sound and scent.

I can hear the old ladies gossiping in the market,
their voices like birdsong,
pecking away at the day’s news.
I’ve learned to love the music in their words—
sharp and quick,
like they’re always a step ahead of me.
The younger ones laugh loud,
like life’s a joke they’re in on,
but won’t bother explaining.
And who can blame them?

There’s a rhythm to the madness here,
like a symphony without a conductor.
Somehow, it all works—
the chaos, the honking,
the street performers playing for coins.
I don’t need to see it to know it’s beautiful,
in the way that only something messy can be.

Back in Kentucky,
everything stayed in its place—
orderly, quiet, predictable.
But here, the world spills over,
doesn’t care where the lines are drawn.
And maybe, just maybe,
I fit in better here,
where no one’s watching
and no one expects me to.

So I’ll keep stumbling forward,
letting the sounds guide me.
The city hums, it buzzes,
and I hum back,
a blind man lost in Mexico City—
but maybe,
I’ve never seen so much.