Last night at the pub.
"...and the sound of the kettle on his hearth was ever after more musical." -Tolkien
After an intense seven month period I settled back on my bed sheets, typing texts that will have shortly lost their purpose. Coming home is ceremonial, glorious for a short period of time - specifically for the time when you can still enjoy the luxury of a hot shower, the kind of breakfast you like, the people you love. The feeling of having all the things enjoyable is luxurious.
But that period of time is a shooting star. After the light has diminished, you feel like you've never left.
I think the people of the world are divided into three separate groups. The first group of people consists of the people who don't travel, the second of the people who'd like to travel and the third of the people who travel. The groups might have people in-between, but the division seems to be quite strict. The first group of people is your home, the second your reality, and the third your dreams.
I've spent the first few days back home with the people from the first two groups and I've felt the division in my bones. When you can't share experiences, you will talk about the common things in your lives. When two people out of three have read the same book, it's boring to talk about it for the third person. When a person in a group has traveled and the others have not, it's likewise boring.
It's weird to feel somehow condescending towards the people who have not traveled but somehow I feel it's just. I've already occasionally felt like an outcast with my own friends. I know it's a feeling that will pass once I get my routine back on but for the time being, I have not been a part of their year, no matter how much I would have liked to have been. It makes me feel lonely.
What, for me, was the most eventful year of my life was an evening spent at the pub for others.