We're on our way home

When I was little, my mom you to drive to the mall east of Richmond. I loved that trip. It got me out of the house, out of the small town I lived in and on the road. I spent most of the trips looking out the window, noting the highways signs and the cars passing (and the ones we passed.) The part of the trip I hated was going home. Going to the mall or the restaurant was an adventure for me. I certainly didn't the trip to end. That's carried over through adulthood. There's a certainly melancholy I feel when I return from a trip, be it by plane, car or train. I still don't want the trip to end. Maybe I just don't want to come home. But a funny thing happened on the way home from New York tonight: I didn't feel it. The sadness, the clouds of loneliness that usually bubble up, the silent dread of coming home to an empty apartment. It wasn't there tonight. The party I went to was good, and the dinner nice and convivial. That probably contributed to it. But maybe all the things I've been reading and absorbing are slowly beginning to take hold. Gotta keep moving along...