This place I am sitting, the place I am choosing to get away, is abuzz with people choosing the opposite. I am mellow. The barista is mellow. I am drinking chamomile tea to help this state along. The rest of these people are drinking coffee and espresso and big trains, getting hyped up on human connection, caffeine and sugar.
I am listening to Radical Face. They are singing the lyrics “Welcome Home” so loudly in my ear that they are making me happy to be sitting here with all of these careless strangers. It’s because I feel at ease in their words. I feel peace at the thought of a “home” existing. It’s a fleeting peace, the kind that I am not sure really exists. It leaves when a friend moves away too soon, when falseness floats to the surface, when a song ends.
Now Jacob Dylan is singing tunes in my ears, with lines including “days of old”, “magnificent floating” and going “into the mystic”. I don’t know what the mystic is, but right now, it feels so much more real to me than home.
And now, quite appropriately, Augustana is encouraging me to go to Boston.
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