I’ve been waking up recently to this view in the morning. Since the end of my finals on Thursday, I don’t need my desk anymore; I got rid of my chair and pushed the bed to this picturesque spot. In less than 12 hours I’ll be separated from this spot by the North Atlantic Ocean. I’ll be in Paris, although that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I won’t be in New York anymore.
It’s strange how when I bought my ticket two months ago, I was excited and relieved at the thought of going home. And I still am, but only partially now. Another side of me is overwhelmed by a sense of loss, not at all dissimilar to the sadness I had felt when I left my whole life to move to New York four months ago. It doesn’t help that this place has yet to feel real to me. It makes all the friends I have seem like people I’d met in a dream, and I, waking up now, or entering another dream, will have too little traces to remind me that they’re real.
It’s sad, and maybe it’s also a privilege, to always have to be in the position to miss people and places. When home transcends a coordinate on the map, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to go home anymore.