Seven days. An entire full week. Home with a bag of clean laundry and nowhere to run off to for a whole week.
Home with chapped skin, dirty hair, and paint still clinging to the backs of my legs.
Home with just one bag, not even barely full of my sleeping bag, warm clothes, play clothes, clothes I gave little thought to the combination of.
Home, full of love and beauty and spirit.
Grand central station has this very particular smell, you can catch it when you get close in the tunnel. Something like diesel and hot and old cement.
Performance art involving ripping apart your duct-taped hand from someone else's will leave you smarting with bruises.
Watching the sparks of a bonfire fly up into a meteor shower. Try as I might, nothing else in the world seemed as powerful in that moment as the beat of the drums and the love and the wild. Try as I might, picturing skyscrapers dwarfing the trees with their star-clouding light, looming down on us with their corporate significance, their power felt hollow, inconsequential, fleeting. Embers floated down and stung my eyes.
Standing in a downpour with more water pressure than most showers, frantically shutting my tent flaps to vainly try to mitigate the impending damp, then lying down on the flooding river of a road and letting the water wash over me, under the waterfall off the roof until my clothes could ring out a river.
Home again, floating again, not engaging with people or space. I have hidden myself away, but not yet donned the mask of the city. The sparkle of the forest remains in my eyes, unaffected by the fluorescent dark of the tunnels.
Home again for long enough to process, to heal, to find my way of being in this place.