A clean slate.
I wiped out my entire blog after being home for a few weeks. All my travel journals from the past year, gone. Ask why I trashed the year-long documentation of new experiences and momentary feelings — I don’t exactly know, but I did so with minimal hesitation.
The first two weeks being officially, but temporarily, back in New York City was refreshing. I had a newfound excitement for this familiar city and its end-of-summer festivities. More new restaurants and the same old friends. I was reminded of the big apple’s beauty and grit once again. Because New York is such a big transit hub, I also got to see some travel buddies in town. In a sense, I was still traveling, except this time in a comfortable place.
Two weeks at home flew by like an MTA train roaring past me on a loud, heated, dirty platform. The moment of silence that came after left me puzzled. What? Did all that traveling really happen? I felt like the year of adventures just left me behind and moved on with that deafening, obnoxious F train. I’m home, settling back into life-draining routines and wondering if everything I had written down was nothing but a sweet summer dream. Everyone rushes on the train like a cattle, day in and day out, and I slowly become one of the same. Again.
Is it possible for a nomad to ever go home?
Homecoming, despite the notion of returning, ought to be a forward motion, not backward. Perhaps I’m just not ready to come home. Or perhaps, home is a state of mind I’m still trying to grasp.