It’s really hard to name the feeling of knowing you’re not in a specific place, while your body desperately wants to be there. Obviously I’m not in my tent. I can’t hear drums, I can’t smell campfire, and if I step ten feet from where I lay, I won’t feel cold, wet grass under my feet.
I could create those sensations from memory alone. I could hear the murmur of voices in soft, pleasant conversation, cheering and drumming, I could pretend I’m home. But home doesn’t exist right now, no matter how badly I want it to. No matter how badly I want to wake up tomorrow, roll off the perfectly acceptable pile of cushions that makes my ‘bed’, and slip on my sandals before braving the chill, foggy morning. Step through a quiet camp, greet the other early risers, and consider what food will wake thenonly family that matters to me.
It existed last year, and it will exist again next year, but this year my city in the most has failed to appear. For now, I try to tell myself that we aren’t home, but that we will be, and that has to be enough.