As my Greyhound bus pulled into Los Angeles at about 10 o'clock last night, I felt fairly contemplative. Being stuck in a bus for 10 hours will do that to a person. Looking around at the city lights hanging high in the sky above me, I couldn't help the feeling that I was returning from a trip and coming home. After three years of living here, this city feels more like home than Home does.
Home changes while I'm gone. Buildings are struck to the ground, rebuilt. Friends become diaspora. Memories of how to get from here to there fade from their place deep within my skin, my muscles, my bones. I'm left with a house that I'm allergic to, a dark ocean, and a park bench. For the first time in a long time, I stood on a hill, in the wind, and actually felt cold. The winds I used to brave with youthful indifference now chill me, affect me. I've become soft, maybe.
Fuck. I don't know.
I'm belatedly thankful for friends.
Here's to friends!
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