From writing on the plane:
It's dark. My journal floats as a tan mirage in the window turned reflective by its obsidian backing. From time to time silvery strings of almost snow stream past the flashing beacon of the stationary wing.
I feel as though I've been traveling for days.
Years--maybe--even.
How easy this has become, though. Traveling. That initial thrill of independence that gripped me as I aimed toward Spain nearly three years ago has muddied itself into something anticipatory but mundane. I feel... fatigued by travel these days. Perhaps because the paths I'm trekking are well-worn, my destination certain and familiar, my routines patterned and reliable.
And perhaps a part of this is me. I've stumbled upon an ironic sense of ease in graduate school. A serenity--sometimes resembling apathy--that has followed in the wake of discovering my relentless passion for teaching. I find very little to be stressed about now. My pulse has slowed, my temper dimmed, and my need to be and do everything perfectly has long since been shed on the tumbling path I've trod these past few months. I feel--generally--that my life is pretty darn good. So much to be grateful for.
A turn of the wing. We dip below the surface of snow-laden existence and I am filled with the need to be
home.
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