This morning we awoke in the cool morning light of Lisbon, people still outside on the streets after a night of drinking. Our bodies were so silently and solidly on the bed in that apartment. My mind was gone up somewhere tinged with sleep and exhaustion. My eyes were dry and my chest felt tight and the only thing to do was focus on your eyelashes. But eventually I found myself on the balcony overlooking the street we've spent the last week on. I let my toes hang over the edge and I tried to see the su peeking around the buildings. Sometimes I don't know my own emotions. Sometimes I feel like I feel emotions that haven't been given a name. What is the title of this--this tightness of chest--this longing to commit every detail to perfect memory?
And we left, the only hesitation brought about my final photograph--the light through our door. Down the stairs we went and then onto an impossible airport filled with so many proofs of so many places--that is to say, so many people. And finally, as if we had been waiting a month to simple feel the feeling of going home, we were in our seats and we were going home. We had that going home feeling about us. There was that tension that you get before takeoff--that feeling like maybe you'll never actually move anywhere--and then the pure release when the plane lifts off and everything reduces itself to an idea, a living map spread out beneath you. And time is paused and sped up and rewound and nothing exists.
And this flight--over an ocean especially--you are, I am, I was, in a perfect blue sphere. A perfect blue sphere in which you could be flying over the sea or the sky, upside down. A blue sphere in which you are blissfully allowed to move forward and stand still. And what better feeling? What better feeling. You are going home and not going home all at the same time. You are here. You are in Lisbon. You are home. You are nothing.