I've never suffered from it before this trip, and as I reflect it seems a fair metaphor for this particular adventure.
I'm back from a blitzkrieg of a trip, beginning last Thursday when I left my apartment at 5am and stopped traveling around 8pm. It was such an occasion that was full of more laughter and memories than should be allowed in such a compact denomination of time; it was a trip for the ages. There are too many stories to retell.
At the same time, my reflective side can find bits of pensiveness in the most gleeful of places.
Friday I went back to my college campus for the first time in close to four years, and it was the very definition of kinetosis; a place I knew intimately, home to some of the most seminal moments in my brief life, and yet the characters were all strangers, things were out of place, it was the same place but fundamentally different. I walked by my old house and I didn't know the cars the driveway. I stopped outside by ex-boyfriend's house and there was nothing to suggest he was ever a resident. It's like four years were erased off the canvas to which they were painted.
Those four years play out every year, in thousands of lives, doing the same things I did, walking the same places I walked, butting up against the berms of convictions and expectations, discovering the same secrets and stories, the sheer newness of constant chaos. That house saw decades before and will see decades later. I forget that life goes on without me.
I can't tell if that comforts me or not.
(The Mopalopshop, ol' 913 Lancaster, the day I moved out for good.)
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