crashing through snowdrifts, bon iver’s wispy voice humming through the car as we skid and slide down the frozen hills, out of ny, out of college, out of mind. whipping waves of flakes fly across the road, tangling and dancing, blinding white over the barely-visible tire tracks we try to follow.
waiting, watching planes pull up, refuel, luggage on board, everything coming together. slowly but surely. going home.
the hardest thing about living here? more than being out-of-place always? being still. not moving.
on the move again, I feel my eyes clear, head light with adrenaline, mind clicking through information at an unstoppable rate. The edge of stress, the potential for so much to go so wrong so fast pushing me forwards, quickening the pace of everything.
I’m back. and I’m going home.